


Slytherin Secrets

by ReillyJade



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deathly Hallows AU, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Horcruxes, Original Character(s), Sexy Times, Tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2018-12-02 07:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11504691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReillyJade/pseuds/ReillyJade
Summary: She's a Muggle-born rebel who needs to be a conformist. He's a pureblood conformist who wants to be a rebel. They're an unlikely team, but helping each other is essential if they're going to make it through Voldemort's new regime alive.





	1. A Risky Return

**Author's Note:**

> A few years ago, I took a business writing class in college. It was an elective, super boring, and easy to zone out in. The benefit? Class was held in the computer lab, making it very easy to type out an entire outline, chapter by chapter, for this story while I should've been paying attention to memo writing or whatever. Got to bang out this chapter, too. (Don't worry - I managed a B+ in the class. ;) )
> 
> Anyway, when the semester ended, I never returned to this story despite having it so thoroughly planned out. And, since I didn't plan on finishing it, I didn't bother to upload the chapter. But this week, while going through an old flashdrive, I found this chapter and the accompanying outline, and now I feel compelled to give it another try.
> 
> And here we are. :)

__  
Chapter art by easterlies @ TDA

_**Chapter One - A Risky Return  
**_ _**~Emmaleigh~** _

I am awakened by the sound of the train screeching on the track as it comes to a halt. I'm surprised I was even able to nap, much less stay asleep for nearly the entire ride. I haven't been sleeping much these days.

I look out the window, catching a glimpse of the castle lingering behind the treetops as we pull into the train station. Its towers are lit up, shining brightly against the navy blue evening sky. It's beautiful - tranquil, even - yet I'm still nervous and jittery. It's pathetic, really. This is my seventh and final time arriving at Hogwarts. You'd think I'd be over my anxiety of going to school by this point.

As if. There's a slim chance of that ever happening, especially now.

The train comes to a complete stop, and I stand to retrieve my trunk from the overhead rack. There's a couple of first years already walking by outside my compartment, talking excitedly about their upcoming Sorting. For their sake, I hope their experience with the Sorting Hat turns out better for them than it did for me.

My sorting was exactly six years ago, yet I still remember it as if it were yesterday…

" _Ross, Emmaleigh!" Professor McGonagall calls._

_I was anxious before, but not anymore. I've met some really nice people on the train. Lots of them are first years, too. Susan and Mandy, the girls I shared a compartment with, are incredibly sweet. A boy my age helped me stow my trunk overhead before shaking my hand and introducing himself as Ernie. I even met some people – Dean, Justin, Lisa, and Hermione – who are Muggleborn, like me. There were those funny, red-haired twins who said they were starting their third year. Even before I stepped onto the train, my trolley collided with one owned by a boy named Harry; he was incredibly nice about it, even though the crash resulted in his owl's cage becoming dislodged and rolling away._

_I climb up the couple of stairs that lead to the Sorting Hat. I heard about this from some fellow students. All I have to do is wear the hat and it will tell me where I belong. I even learned a bit about the houses from Susan, too._

_As I sit down on the stool, I can see Hermione and Harry smiling at me from the Gryffindor table. That clumsy boy, Neville, is there too. Justin and Susan are already seated with their fellow Hufflepuffs, and they both wave at me. Mandy gives me a thumbs-up from her spot at the Ravenclaw table._

_The second Professor McGonagall places the hat on my head, I can hear it talking to me, whispering so only I can hear it._

" _Well, well, isn't this interesting…" it says. "Aren't you just a mix of everything? Wise like a Ravenclaw, loyal like a Hufflepuff, brave like a Gryffindor…"_

" _And I'll take any of them," I think to myself with a smile, waiting for the hat to shout one out to everyone in the Great Hall._

" _Let me finish, young Emmaleigh," the hat says. My smile fades. I didn't know the hat could hear what I was thinking. "There's a bit of Slytherin in you, too."_

" _Slytherin?" I think. "What do you mean? If there's one house I_ don't  _belong in, it's Slytherin!"_

" _And what makes you say that?" asks the Sorting Hat._

" _Well, I'm a Muggleborn."_

" _Are you now?"_

" _Yes!" I'm getting nervous now. Everyone I've befriended is either in Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, or Ravenclaw. I just have to be in one of those! "There's no such thing as a Muggleborn Slytherin. They're all half-bloods at the very least!"_

" _That's why it pains me to have to put you there. I know you'll have some hard times."_

" _Then don't put me there! Please, put me in one of the other three. My friends are there! Please, anything but Slytherin!"_

_The hat sighs. "You are a sweet girl, Emmaleigh. I can tell you will grow up to do magnificent things. But for now, you'll have to trust me. There's a reason for this. Someday, you'll understand why you belong in SLYTHERIN!"_

_The hat shouts that last part. Slytherin. The table on the far right of the hall erupts with applause as my heart plunges to the ground. I look around at the other three tables and the small group of kids in front of me still awaiting their sorting, and everyone who I've met has their mouth open in shock. I feel like crying._

" _Miss Ross," Professor McGonagall says as she lifts the hat from my head, "please join your classmates at the Slytherin table."_

_I nod and get up, but my heart is not in it. I drag my feet as I walk over to the cheering Slytherins waiting for me. I take a seat, and everyone quiets down as the next student is sorted._

I still think about that day often. Before we all entered the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall told myself and the rest of my classmates that our houses would be like our families while at school. I'm not sure how that worked out for everyone else, but in my eyes, she couldn't have been more wrong. The Sorting Hat said that I'd eventually understand why I belonged in Slytherin. Well, it's been six years, and I still have no bloody clue.

This wasn't to say I haven't had any friends at school. I still got on with the people I met who were in the other three houses, and I always had someone to sit with in class or join up with on Hogsmeade weekends. Things got even better in fifth year when Dumbledore's Army started; unsurprisingly, I was the only Slytherin in it. Overall, my time at Hogwarts has been enjoyable.

But, when the evenings came and I had no choice but to retreat to Slytherin House, I would silently curse the Sorting Hat. I've spent the last six years feeling like an outcast in my own dormitory. Sure, my housemates liked me for a while until they found out I was Muggleborn. Then, I became known as the filthy Mudblood who tainted their flawless house, a disease that had to be avoided at all costs. I mean, really, what was that dumb hat thinking? It must have made a careless mistake. Everyone knows Slytherin is a Muggleborn-free house. Well,  _was,_ anyway.

But what's done is done. I'm in Slytherin. I don't like it, but I've accepted it.

The corridor outside of my compartment fills up a bit more with chattering students as I linger behind, digging through my trunk. I locate my black robe and green and silver tie and put them both on. I push my hair behind my shoulders to make sure the Slytherin patch is in plain sight. For the first time in my life, I am going to wear it proudly. Pretend to, rather. I take a deep breath and exit the compartment to join my fellow classmates.

There are officials from the Ministry on the platform, as expected. I probably won't have a problem getting past them, but I make sure I have my documentation ready just in case.

A middle-aged, greasy, heavy-set man is the one who inspects me. He looks and smells like he hasn't showered in months, but I suppose I can't expect much more than that from the Ministry in these times. As predicted, his eyes immediately dart to the patch on my robe.

"Slyth'rin, eh?" he says in a scruffy voice.

"Yes, sir."

"Not t'be offensive, Miss, but I 'ave to check yer papers jus' to be safe. New protocol, ye see."

"Of course," I say with my best attempt at sincerity. I hand him my forged documentation.

He looks it over, titling it slightly to see the embedded Ministry logo that can only be seen at precise angle. "Half-blood?"

"Yes." Pretending to be a pureblood would have been too risky, not to mention nearly impossible.

He smirks. "You mus' take pride in th' magical aspect of yer heritage, bein' in Slyth'rin."

I nod and smile back, but say nothing.

He hands me back my papers. "'ave a good school year, Miss Ross."

"Thank you, sir," I say, taking my papers and walking past the Ministry official to the carriages. I make a mental note to tell Fred and George that their nifty charm work on the documentation did the trick. Bless their hearts. If I had done it myself, it wouldn't have been believable and I probably would have been arrested on the spot. I'm absolute rubbish at charms.

I suspect if I had been in any other house, I would have undergone further inspection to prove my blood status and be allowed back to Hogwarts. For once, my being in Slytherin is a benefit. Lucky me.

I can't help but notice how much emptier the carriages are this year, what with the lack of Muggleborns and the students whose families have fled the country. Usually, there's ten or more students sharing one, yet here I am in one huge carriage with only one fourth-year from Hufflepuff and a couple of nervous-looking second-years.

As the carriage rattles down the cobblestone path leading to the castle, I realize how lonely this year will be. I yearn for the company of any of my friends. Some will have returned, I'm sure, but I know people like Justin and Dean won't be back. Harry, of course, is on the run with Ron and Hermione. I play with my D.A. coin in my pocket. It hasn't been used since fifth year, but having it gives me hope - hope that they'll send me some sort of sign that they're safe and well.

The carriage pulls up to the front of the Entrance Hall, and I step off after the other three occupants have. As I approach the opened doors, however, I'm stopped by Professor Flitwick.

"Welcome back, Miss Ross," he squeaks. He looks surprised to see me, probably because he knows I'm a Muggleborn, but doesn't say anything about it. "You're instructed to go to the Headmaster's Office straight away. The password is 'beaming bowtruckle.'"

My heart sinks. I don't want to go there, not when it isn't Dumbledore's office anymore. I don't want to see Snape.

_Snape._

No wonder he wants to see me. He knows my true blood status, too. He's probably going to hand me over to the Ministry. I wonder if there's a way I can contact the Order for help…

"Everything will be fine, Miss Ross," Professor Flitwick says. He must have sensed my panic. He offers me a kind smile as he gestures for me to enter the castle.

I make a feeble attempt to smile back. "Thank you, Professor."

My heart thunders against my ribcage all the way to the Headmaster's Office. I've only been in it once. It was fifth year, and Dumbledore had called a meeting with all of the new prefects. I remember how sullen Pansy was once she found out I had been chosen over her. It's one of my very few fond memories from the Slytherin Common Room.

"Beaming bowtruckle," I say as I approach the giant phoenix statue. The stairs emerge, which I climb slowly, trying to postpone this meeting with Snape as much as possible.

The doors are wide open once I reach the top of the stairs, giving me a clear view of Dumbledore's murderer. Snape was sitting at  _Dumbledore's_  desk, in  _Dumbledore's_  chair, surrounded by  _Dumbledore's_  things. It was sickening, and my stomach churned at the sight. Maybe it's a good thing Harry isn't here this year; he would have killed him.

I'm surprised to see that Draco Malfoy is also in the office. He's leaning against one of the many bookcases with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks irritated, as if he had something better to do, somewhere better to be. I must admit I agree with him for once.

"Ah, Miss Ross. You've finally elected to grace us with your presence," Snape sneers.

I narrow my eyes at him. "Good evening, Professor," I say coolly. I nod towards Draco. "Malfoy."

He nods back. "Ross."

"Now that that's done," Snape says in an aggravated tone, "I have something for both of you. Approach."

Draco and I walk over to the desk as Snape pulls out a small, wooden box that he unlocks with his wand. Inside of it are two flat pieces of gold shaped like shields. He hands one to me and one to Draco. Upon closer inspection, I can make out an engraving on mine:  _Head Girl_.

I look at Snape. "I don't understand."

He raises an eyebrow. "Can you not read, Miss Ross?"

I ignore his snide remark. "Why me?"

I really am curious. Snape has hated me since day one; I suppose associating with people who are as far away from the Dark Side as possible overrides the fact that I'm in his house and do well in his class. I understand why he chose Draco for Head Boy, but choosing me makes no sense at all.

"You both are no doubt aware of the latest Ministry regulations," he says. "You two are the seventh year Slytherin prefects. As Slytherin house is and always has been a symbol of everything the Ministry and the Dark Lord stand for, the choice was obvious. Believe me, Miss Ross, had it been completely my decision, I would have stripped you of your prefect title and given it to a more worthy Slytherin."

I stare at him coldly, but say nothing.

"Now," Snape continues, "as Head Boy and Girl, you will no longer be dwelling in the Slytherin dormitories. Your new quarters are located on the fourth floor behind the statue of Robin the Ruthless. Point your wand into the palm of his right hand to access the door to your rooms. Dinner will be brought up to you once you arrive. Now, leave me be. I have other matters to attend to that are less pathetic." And with that, Snape spins his chair around so that his back is to us.

Draco and I share a brief glance before we leave the office. We walk in silence to the fourth floor. The two of us never liked each other, much less had anything to say to one another. There's no reason to try to meddle with that now. We can inhabit in our new dormitory with each other for this one year only and then move on with our lives.

It is Draco who presses his wand to Robin the Ruthless's palm. The giant statue moves to the right, and I can see a small mahogany door. He opens it, revealing an elegant sitting room with a table and two cozy-looking sofas. There are two doors on either side of the room, which undoubtedly lead to the bedrooms. Without a word, Draco walks into the bedroom on the left, slamming the door behind him.

"Charming," I mutter under my breath.

I proceed to check out my own room. It's not much different from my dormitory in Slytherin House. There's the traditional four-poster bed, a desk, a dresser, and a wardrobe. The only major change is the absence of the other four beds and the wenches that occupied them. I should be pleased about this. For the past six years, I've wanted nothing more than to be away from my Slytherin roommates, but standing here in my own, grand room makes me feel oddly lonely.

I'm still holding the badge that Snape gave me. I look down at it, feeling a twinge of guilt. This badge should have been Hermione's. Everyone in our year knows she was destined to be Head Girl. I know there's no possible way she could have returned to Hogwarts this year, but it still feels wrong to be in possession of the title she deserved to have. I toss the badge across the room, not bothering to pay attention to where it lands.

Seeing that my trunk is already in place at the edge of my bed, I know I should begin to unpack and sort my things. Instead, I lazily crash down onto my bed. I hear one door slam after another outside of my room, and I roll my eyes. Draco is probably going to visit his cronies in the Slytherin Common Room. Fine by me. I don't want to be around that arrogant bastard anymore than I do the rest of my housemates.

Harry is the only one from the Rebellion who knows I've returned to school. Everyone else thinks I've gone into hiding, like the rest of the Muggleborns; even Fred and George only think I asked for help forging my documentation at the beginning of summer in case I was ever caught on the run. I suppose going into hiding probably would have been the wisest thing for me to do, but I couldn't. I just couldn't sit around and simply wait for something to happen. Harry needs help, and out of everyone in the D.A., I'm the least likely to be under scrutiny thanks to my house.

It's actually because of the D.A. that I befriended Harry and, by extension, Ron and Hermione. Mind you, we were always acquaintances who greeted one another and made small talk in class, but fifth year was when I really began to call him my friend. Always attempting to delay my return to Slytherin House, I often lingered after our meetings. Naturally, he and I got into talking, and we grew pretty close after a while.

Harry tried to discourage me from returning to Hogwarts, but I wouldn't have it. He is convinced that there is a Horcrux somewhere in the castle, or at the very least some clues to help him find the rest. While I'm here, I can help the Rebellion by trying to scrounge up any information I can about Voldemort's past. I have absolutely no idea what to look for or where to begin. I haven't even quite figured out how I'm going to contact Harry in the even that I do find something. He was on the run before we could discuss that part.

As I lay here, the confidence I gained from getting past both the Ministry official and Snape starts to fade, and the worry seeps in. I knew what the risks were when I decided to do this, but I knew it was worth it. I  _still_ know it's worth it. Even though I've prepared well for this task, I'm still concerned. I could get caught at any given moment if I step out of line or make one wrong move. What if I'm found out? What if I get caught communicating with members of the Rebellion? What if someone is able to prove with absolute certainty that I'm Muggleborn? What would they do to me?

For the thousandth time tonight, I long to talk to any of my friends. Dean, Lisa, Susan, Terry, Mandy, Ernie…

No, not Ernie. Not anymore.

I really don't have anyone this year. If I want to avoid suspicion, I can't be seen talking kindly with anyone outside of my own house. There's not a doubt in my mind that Ginny or Neville will want to get the D.A. back together again, and it pains me that I can't be a part of it anymore. I hope they'll figure out why, and I hope they'll understand.

It's strange, but all of a sudden, I wish I could talk to my mother. I wonder what she would think of what I'm doing, if she would think I'm being noble or reckless. Maybe she'd give me some of that motherly reassurance that everything will turn out for the best. I just want to hear her voice. I know this will never happen, though. She's been dead for as long as I've been alive.

Is it possible to miss someone you never really knew? Sometimes I feel like I do miss my mother, but what's there to miss? I have no memories of her. My Aunt Maggie, my mother's older sister, is the one who raised me. She hasn't told me a whole lot about my mother; they loved each other, but being five years apart, they were never exactly close, so my aunt probably doesn't have all that many stories to share. All I know is that my mom became pregnant when she was nineteen, had a troubled pregnancy, and was twenty when she had me. Twenty when she died.

The thought that I'm to blame plagues me even though I know it's not true. I know my mother's death wasn't my fault, but sometimes I can't help but think that if it wasn't for me, she'd still be alive and well. No one seems to know much about my father, other than he was some guy my mother met while at school, so I must have been a mistake. Maybe I was never supposed to be here.

Now I think about the fact that I'm not even supposed to be  _here_  this year. If things go wrong and I'm caught, they'll interrogate me for sure. They could use the Cruciatus, or even Veritaserum. Will I end up giving up the whereabouts of the Weasleys, Tonks, Lupin, and the rest of the Order? Will I confess the purpose of Harry's mission? How many lives am I putting in jeopardy by simply being in a place I'm forbidden to be?

I suddenly sit up and put my face in my hands. I'm going crazy already. Deciding I need to get out of this dim room and get some fresh air, I leave my room, ignoring the two untouched plates on the table in the sitting room. I forgot about dinner. I'm not very hungry tonight, anyway, so I wave my wand and make my plate vanish. I leave Draco's just in case, but he's probably having a feast elsewhere with his Dark Side friends. For a second, I feel oddly jealous about this - not that he's in association with the Dark Side, but that he has people he can go hang out with if he wants.

Once I leave the room and Robin the Ruthless is back in his place, I begin my trek through the halls. Back at home, whenever I've needed to go somewhere to be alone, I always went to Jenkins Park. It's not even much of a park, really - just a couple of swings and some benches. As it's right around the corner from where we live, I would sneak out at night and go lay in the grass to look at the stars. I love stargazing. It relaxes me, soothes me, gives me hope. Since Jenkins Park isn't an option here, I use the Astronomy Tower. It has more than sufficed over the past six years when I needed a sanctuary, and I suspect I'll be making quite a few visits over the coming months.

The only door leading to the small, winding staircase to the top of the tower is ajar, and I don't think too much of it as I proceed to climb the stairs. I'm just about to reach the top and round the corner to the observing area when I hear a voice. A boy's voice. A very familiar boy's voice.

Draco's voice.

"I just…I can't do it anymore…" he says. "I don't  _want_  to do it anymore. I never did. I hate them all…"

I peek around the corner, and what I see shocks me. Draco is leaning against the railing, facing the Black Lake and talking to no one. He is shaking slightly, and though he is not crying, I can see old tear stains on his face. I've never seen him look so vulnerable, so pained, so  _real._ He looks up toward the sky and continues to talk. His voice is shaky and sounds as if he's on the verge of tears again.

"Some people say you're up there, and if you are,  _please_ help me. I know I haven't been a good person, but I can't do this anymore. I don't want to hurt anyone…" Draco breaks down into a sob and mutters something that vaguely sounds like "please."

My better judgment tells me to walk back down the stairs and pretend I hadn't seen anything. But something stops me. I can only assume he was referring to the Death Eaters when he was speaking, and if that's the case, he's alone, too. He's like me. I can't leave him.

I breath in deeply and step around the wall, walking slowly and cautiously toward him.

"Malfoy?"


	2. On the Astronomy Tower

****  
_Chapter art by easterlies @ TDA_

**_Chapter Two – On the Astronomy Tower  
_** **_~Draco~_ **

            I thought coming back here would be the wisest decision, figuring it would help me avoid the gruesome, horrifying, and downright inhumane things occurring in my family's home as of late. If I was away completing my education – something that's oh-so-important to my parents – I figured they'd all let me be, at least for this year.

            But no. The letter requesting for me to return over the weekend was waiting for me when I arrived in my new dormitory a half hour ago.

            And it's not as if I can say no, either. Snape's running the school; I'm sure he'll gladly give me permission to leave school grounds. Not to mention, my father's not exactly on the Dark Lord's good side right now. No… I cannot argue; if I do, it will only make things worse for my family and me. I have to go. And unless I come up with a viable excuse by then, I'll be required to do whatever the bastards tell me.

            I came up here to clear my head, or maybe even come up with some sort of a plan to get me out of this mess. I can't go along with what they – the Death Eaters – want. It's too revolting, too _sickening_. I'm proud to be a pureblood, but I simply cannot sink to the level they're demanding of me. At the same time, there's no place for me with Potter and the Order. What would they want with me?

            I'm stuck. There's nowhere for me to turn.

            For Merlin's sake, I can't even come up to the damn Astronomy Tower without someone interfering with my lone attempt for solitude, for peace. Considering what happened on this very platform in June, I assumed this would've been the last place anyone ventured.

            It is a soft, feminine voice that interrupts not only my thoughts, but my sense of security. This tower has acted as my refuge whenever I felt like being alone; I've never been disturbed before. Naturally, it has to be tonight that my lucky streak is broken.

            I don't turn to see who my intruder is, but instead quickly glance out of the corner of my eye. _Her._ Of course it's her. Emmaleigh Ross. I can't imagine wanting to see anyone less right now. It's not that she's a bad person, but she's just so... _strange._ She has an odd name. She's in Slytherin but acts as if she's a Gryffindor. She somehow managed to become Head Girl this year despite being Muggleborn. Hell, the fact that she's even _here_ and a Muggleborn is a curiosity itself.

            I glance up at the sky. _This is what you call help?_ I think. _Thanks for nothing._

            “Are you alright?” she asks tentatively.

            “Sod off, Ross. I'm busy.”

            “I'm only tr-”

            “I said sod off!” I say a bit louder, turning toward her and giving my best attempt at looking angry. I'm hardly mad at her, but the last thing I need is someone knowing my heart's not in The Cause. It'll blow my cover. They'll kill me for sure. I may not like my side all that much, but if I at least act like I'm with it, I'll be safe.

            Emmaleigh looks slightly hurt, but more defiant than anything else. She displays this by taking one, two, three steps toward me, hand cautiously placed over what I can only assume is her wand pocket, just in case – a smart thing to do in these times.

            “What is it you don't want to do?” she persists.

            “It's none of your bloody business.”

            “Has he given you another task? You-Know-Who?”

            “No, he hasn't gi-” I stop. What am I doing? “Quit meddling. It doesn't concern you.”

            “Then what is it? Maybe the Order can help.”

            “Listen here, Ross,” I say sternly, “I know perfectly well you're involved with the Order. You've made your choice. I've made mine. We're on different sides.”

            “It certainly didn't _sound_ like you want to be on your side.”

            “What difference does it make to you if I want to be on their side or not? The point is I'm there. I'm _against_ you.”

            “Are you?”

            Merlin, she's a pain in the arse. She's even starting to give Granger a run for her money.

            “Look, I'm no idiot,” she continues. “I heard the things you were saying. You can lie to my face all you want, but you weren't lying to yourself just a minute ago. You don't want to be on their side. You know you don't.”

            “And I suppose you think that means I want to be on _your_ side?”

            “No, but if they're making you do things you think are wrong...” Her voiced trails off, but I know where she was going with it. She was about to give me a speech on morals or some shit like that, but quit while she was ahead. Smart girl.

            “Allow me to ask you this, then,” I counter. “If you're so keen on fighting for the greater good, why the hell have you even come back to Hogwarts? What good will you be to them if you're dead?”

            That catches her off guard. She opens her mouth on impulse, but quickly closes it upon realizing she doesn't have an answer at the tip of her tongue. It's a bit of a shame, actually, as there is a small part of me that's wondering what she's doing here. She's a Muggleborn, and it must have taken nerves of steel to return to this place with that status on her shoulders, regardless of how well she was able to conceal her identity. She's here for a reason. I'm sure of it.

            “It's complicated,” is all she says.

            “You're helping Potter?”

            “ _It's complicated.”_

            “It's irritating when someone pries, isn't it?” I say victoriously.

            “I wasn't prying! I was trying to-”

            “Yes, trying to help, I know. By prying.”

            “Well, if you weren't such spoiled, arrogant prat who considers himself too good to talk to anyone but himself, there'd be no need for me to pry!”

            She stays rooted on the spot, her stubborn green eyes staring me down. She's not going anywhere until I give her something.

            “You can't tell me you've never questioned where your loyalties lie?” I ask. Perhaps turning the focus on her will get her off my back.

            “Of course not. Have you forgotten who my friends are? Have you forgotten I'm Muggleborn?”

            “I know that, but... you _are_ in Slytherin. Why?”

            “I wish I knew.”

            “There has to be a reason.”

            “There is. The Sorting Hat made a mistake. It must have.”

            Emmaleigh continues to glare at me, patiently waiting for me to spill... what, exactly? Does she want me to get emotional or something? Is she seeking information to slip to Potter and the Order? That must be it.

            “I'm not giving you any knowledge about You-Know-Who's plans, so if that's why you're here, you can bugger off.” It's not as if I actually _know_ all that much of his plans, anyway. Not the important ones, at least.

            “That's not why I came up here.”

            “Then why _are_ you here?”

            “Well, I certainly didn't come to see you,” She walks until she's standing next to me, though she keeps a fair amount of space between our hands as she, too, leans on the railing. “I'm here for the same reason I suspect you are. I needed to think. Or _not_ think, actually. I had to take my mind off things for a bit.”

            I nod, but look out at the Black Lake rather than at her. I get it. I have no idea why she's back here, or even how she managed to cover her blood status, but I can only guess she's been given a rather daunting task to complete. Perhaps that ambition is the Slytherin in her.

            We're silent for a long time, both of us staring out at the water, the trees, the starlit night sky. This has always been such a beautiful place, so much so that it's almost deceiving. I know better than anyone that beyond those protective wards is an ugly, deplorable world that's rapidly plunging into chaos. I dread being forced back into it.

            Emmaleigh is the one who breaks the silence. This comes as no surprise to me.

            “I won't tell anyone, you know.”

            I turn to look at her. She's still staring at the lake.

            “Won't tell anyone what?”

            “The things you were saying. The fact that you don't want to be on their side... and why.”

            _And why._ She still won't let it go.

            “Why do you want to know so badly?”

            She shrugs, finally turning to face me. “It's not that I want to know, exactly. It's just... I'm alone, too.”

            The faintest of smiles appears on my face. I hadn't thought of that. She's clearly disguising herself as a half-blood at the very least. If she wants to avoid suspicion, she can't associate with anyone she typically does. I know the Golden Three have vanished, but some of the others have probably come back. The members of that little club they all had when Umbridge was around... surely some of them returned. She can't talk to them if she wants to remain under the radar.

            And me... well, who am I to discuss anything with? Crabbe and Goyle are useless. Snape's to report anything and everything that could create a hiccup in The Cause to the Dark Lord. Pansy, Nott, Zabini, and all the others are clamoring to be on one of the Dark Lord's pedestals; they'd rat me out in an instant in exchange for a chance at getting closer to the top.

            We're both characters this year, Emmaleigh and I, pretending to be people we're not.

            I know I should be repulsed by the sight of her, much less actually be having a civilized conversation with her, but she doesn't seem as irritating as she has in recent years. I still don't _like_ her, but perhaps we have more in common than I thought. Being left no choice but to hide who we really are to keep ourselves safe, being burdened with tasks and sights beyond our years, being forced to grow up far too soon...

            I relent.

            “You first,” I say.

            She raises an eyebrow. “Pardon me?”

            “You. Why are you here?”

            “I told you, it's complicated.”

            “Your point?”

            “It's a long story, alright?”

            “So?” I spin so my back is to the railing and plop myself down on the stone floor. “Sit. You'll be more comfortable for this _long story.”_

            She sighs and reluctantly sits down beside me. She doesn't say it, but I know she's nervous about talking. Whatever she's hiding has something to do with Potter or the Order, or both, and she's not sure if she trust me with such sensitive information. With the way I've behaved over the past six years, I can't blame her.

            I see it in her eyes when she looks at me again. There's apprehension and uncertainty in those green pools, and I can only hope she can read my mind: I won't use anything against her, Potter, or the Order. I have no intention of taking advantage of her trust should she decide to give it to me. Even though she's a Muggleborn and goes against essentially everything I've been raised to believe, I don't want to hurt her. I don't want to hurt _anyone,_ for that matter.

            When she finally nods, I know there's a silent, but mutual understanding between us: I'll keep her secret if she keeps mine. I think that's fair. I'd even go so far as to say it's a comfort.

            “Okay,” she says. “I'm looking for a Horcrux.”

            “A what?”

            “A Horcrux, or something that could help me find one. Harry thinks Hogwarts is the best place to start looking.”

            “What in heaven's name is a bloody Horcrux?”

            “It's something a murderer hides a bit of his soul in. It can be anything.”

            “Hides his – what?” She's talking nonsense. “How is that even possible?”

            Emmaleigh gives me the long, exhaustive history of what these rather disgusting objects are and why she's looking for one. Evidently, this Horcrux thing is the reason Potter hasn't killed the Dark Lord yet. Sneaky bastard. Clever, yes, but sneaky.

            “I'm trying to find out anything I can,” she concludes. “Anything that could help. Harry, Ron, and Hermione are looking, too. It's the only way this whole thing can end.”

            “So you need to find one object,” I say. “One thing. That shouldn't be too hard. Hogwarts is only so big.” When she grimaces and shakes her head, I narrow my eyes. “What?”

            “Not one. Four.”

            _“Four?_ You must be joking!”

            “I wish I was. He's split his soul into seven pieces and hid six of them in random objects. Two of them have already been found and destroyed. There's four left.”

            “Good lord,” I mumble. I lean my head back against the railing. “And you all know nothing about where they could be hidden?”

            “Well, we know You-Know-Who relished in his magical heritage and loved being a student at Hogwarts, so Harry is certain I'll find some clues here, if not an actual Horcrux. Other than that, no. Any ideas?”

            I shrug and shake my head. “Nothing.”

            “Do you... I mean, is it possible that anyone you know has one, or knows where they are?”     

            “What are you suggesting?”

            “Is there anyone he puts a lot of confidence in, or may be likely to trust with such a secret?”

            I know where she's going with this. She's wondering if there's a piece of that wanker's soul in my home. Maybe there was at one point. When I was young, there were always certain things I wasn't allowed to touch, but I always figured it was because they were fragile. Maybe there actually _was_ a Horcrux or two in my parents' care. But after my father was sent to Azkaban... surely Voldemort would have had it moved if there was one there to begin with?

            “I'll ask around,” I say. “Maybe somebody knows something.”

            She nods. “Just… don't say 'Horcrux.' If anyone's keeping something hidden for You-Know-Who, I doubt they know its significance, much less what its proper term is.”

            “Relax, I'm not that daft.”

            She smiles. “Thanks.”

            She has quite a pleasant smile. She's not a bad looking girl, to be completely honest. The light, scattered freckles on her ivory face have a certain charm to them.

            “So, it's your turn,” she says. “Why the change of heart?”

            I know what I want to say. I want to say it's because of the vile, repulsive things that are expected of me, and that's definitely part of it. But that might not be _all_ of it.

            “I don't think it's as much of a change of heart as much as it is a blatant realization.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Pureblood mania, hating Mudbl- Muggleborns,” I quickly correct myself, “it's all I've ever known. It's all I was taught growing up. I didn't know any different.”

            “So you're a Mudblood lover now?” My eyes widen at her use of the word, and when I look at her, she's grinning. “What? Isn't that what you've called the Weasleys over the years? Mudblood lovers?”

            “Yeah, but, I didn't-”

            She chuckles. “The word doesn't bother me anymore. I'm over it.”

            “Right.” I'm not going to argue. “And no, that's not what I meant. What I meant is I don't know if I really _am_ like them or not.”

            She's silent for a moment before responding. “I think you know the answer to that.”

            “Do I?”

            She nods. “The fact that you're even questioning whether you're like them proves that you aren't.”

            I don't say anything for a while. I don't like thinking that I've been living a lie for the last seventeen years, yet at the same time, I don't like the person I've been. And I certainly don't like where my life is headed if I follow the footsteps of the Death Eaters.

            It's as if she can read my mind.

            “What is it they want you to do?” She asks this timidly, almost as if she really doesn't want to know, but some unseen force is obliging her to ask.

            “They want me to join in their... _activities.”_

            “Meaning?”

            “I'm sure you know of the Ministry's latest regulations concerning Mudbl- Muggleborns and blood traitors.”

            “I'm aware.”

            “So you know they're being captured.”

            “Malfoy, _I'm_ a Muggleborn,” she declares with the slightest hint of annoyance in her voice. “I had to have Fred and George forge my documentation so I could get back into school undetected. Do you really think I don't know what sort of danger I'm up against?”

            “Sorry,” I mutter.

            She nods. “Go on.”

            “Not everyone who gets captured gets brought to the Ministry. Some of them aren't even interrogated.” She remains silent, waiting for me to continue. “Some of them get brought straight to the Death Eaters, and…” I pause for a moment. “I’m sure you can figure out what happens.”

            I say nothing else, but I don't really have to. She stares at me. She doesn't appear surprised by my admission, just... sickened, much like I am.

            “Why?” It's all she asks. “What's the point?”

            “Like I said, it's nothing more than an activity for them. It's _fun._ It's _pleasure_. They get off on that shit. They also have some sick, twisted idea that Mud- Muggleborns stole their magical abilities, and that those abilities can somehow be tortured out of them. It's nauseating. As for me, they want me to… to _prove_ myself.”

            “But haven’t you?” she asks quickly. “I mean, you’ve taken the Mark.”

            “Yeah, and then I choked on my first assignment. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill him.”

            “Because you’re not a killer!”

            “And they think I’m weak because of it!” I say. “They’re questioning my loyalty! So to prove I’m not against them, I’m expected to torture a captive. A _woman_ captive, and not only with a curse!”

            I don't want to say any more. If I do, I'll start to hear it all. I'll hear their pleas as they're dragged in by their hair through the front door and down into the basement, where Dolohov and Rookwood and Rowle and Yaxley and even my pathetic excuse for an uncle are waiting. I'll hear the screams, the curses, and the blood pounding in my ears as I'm not permitted to do a damn thing to stop it.

            I look over at Emmaleigh. She's now staring at her feet, and I'm fairly sure everything I just told her is causing her to panic. She _is_ a Muggleborn, after all.

            “Look,” I say, “you got past the guards to get into school. They bought it. No one's going to come looking for you.”

            “I'm not worried about me.” She doesn't actually say who she's worried about. I don't ask.

            “Fair enough.”

            “Have you...?”

            I look at her in disbelief. “Of course I haven't! Why the fuck do you think this is upsetting me so much?”

            “Well, how was I supposed to know?” she retorts defensively. “The Ministry fell a month ago!”

            “What's that got to do with anything?”

            “It means you've been avoid these... _expectations_ for a while now. Why is it suddenly an issue?”

            “Because I lied to them. I told them I was going out with Pansy.” She appears confused, so I explain. “Death Eaters are conservative, in a way. They have this thing about honor. Part of that honor is being faithful, should you have someone to be faithful to. And… well, _that_ … however sadistic, is considered a very intimate thing, and intimacy of any kind with another person is considered unfaithful.”

            The more I say, the more ridiculous it sounds. How in the world did they come up with these absurd rules?

            “So by claiming you were with Pansy, you were off the hook.”

            “Precisely.”

            “I'm sorry, but I fail to believe that not a single one your Death Eater friends is married, or has a girlfriend.”

            “First of all, they are _not_ my friends,” I say sharply. “Secondly, it’s not as if what they want from me is something that happens on a regular basis. I’m not even sure it happens at all. They’re just trying to punish me for failing my task. The point is, I chose to claim that I couldn't break my commitment to Pansy. They were disappointed, but they couldn't really argue with it, you know? It's actually deemed a respectable decision.”

            “Then why not continue to say you're with Pansy? If it's worked so far-”

            I cut her off. “Pansy's with Theo now. Like, _really_ with Theo, and everyone knows it.”

            “Oh.”

            I nod. “So with my _girlfriend_ out of the picture, I can't play the honor card anymore. I'm screwed. I'm expected home this coming weekend and I know damn well why. _Initiation._ ”

            I want to puke.

            Emmaleigh says nothing. She stares straight ahead and I wish I could tell what's going through her mind. She's probably thinking I'm a sick bastard and a coward for not standing up to them, and she's right. But what am I to do? If I'm disobedient, they'll kill me, and possibly my mother and father, too. If I oblige, I'll be committing one of the most deplorable acts known to humankind. I lose either way.

            How the _fuck_ did things get this bad?

            “I could help you,” she speaks quietly.

            I shoot her a look. “Come again?”

            She shrugs. “Tell them you're with me.”

            “No,” I retort immediately. “You're mad.”

            “How so?”

            “You're trying to be essentially invisible this year, Ross. Do you really think masquerading as my girlfriend isn't going to earn you some sort of scrutiny?”

            “Maybe, but would your family even entertain the idea of you seeing a Muggleborn, much less believe it?”

            “Doubtful.”

            “Exactly.” She shifts her body slightly so she's facing me. “They'll have to assume I'm a half-blood at the very least, which is perfect. It'll help me maintain my cover, and it'll ensure that you don't have to do anything... horrifying.”

            She does have a point, but there's still a problem.

            “They'll ask about your heritage. That's a certainty. They'll want to know where your magical blood is from, and you don't have that.”

            A thoughtful look appears on her face. “I don't know who my father is. I could say he was a wizard.”

            I shake my head. “They'll want a name.”

            “Then we'll do some research. There has to be some pureblood wizard out there who never married or had children. Preferably one who has died in the last seventeen years so they can't go asking questions.” When I say nothing, she continues. “Look, it's not that big of a deal. It's the school year. It's not as if I'll be seeing your parents every day. This is just a cover for you that I can vouch for if the need arises. It's the least I can do seeing as you're going to learn anything you can about the Horcruxes.”

            “It _is_ a big deal, Ross. If we’re ever found out... we'll both be dead. This is really dangerous territory.”

            “I know,” she concedes. “But what other choice do we have?”

            _We don't,_ I think to myself.

            Emmaleigh and I have never been friends, and I doubt we ever will, but I still don't like the thought of possibly being the reason her cover gets blown. And then there's the whole trust issue. Can I _really_ be sure she won't screw me over somehow? Is there any way to be sure certain she isn't simply using me?

            But there _are_ no certainties in these times. Anything any one of us do, dark side or light, requires a leap of faith. None of us can completely trust anyone. The same applies to Emmaleigh. She's taking a chance with me, too. This is probably the most reliable deal either of us can strike right now.

            So I nod.

            “Okay,” I state. “I'm in.”

            I expect the dynamic to change between us, but it doesn't. We aren't suddenly best friends, nor do I suddenly feel this overwhelming desire to be with her all the time. I'm still me and she's still her. There is no us. We must be the most unlikely alliance the war has resulted in.

            Nonetheless, I'm slightly optimistic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. Meeting the Malfoys

  
_Chapter art by callisto @ TDA_

**_Chapter Three – Meeting the Malfoys  
_ ** **_~Emmaleigh~_ **

Avoiding my friends has been slightly easier than I'd anticipated, and I can't decide if that's a curse or a blessing. I hardly ever see them. Snape has separated the houses for all lessons, and speaking to students in different houses at mealtimes is forbidden.

I've seen some of them in the corridors here and there. Terry was the first one to spot me. He looked bewildered, probably because I'm Muggleborn, and he even seemed tempted to try to talk to me before spotting one of the Carrows on patrol. Luna, bless her heart, waved and smiled once. Twice at dinner I caught Ernie looking at me from his place at the Hufflepuff table, but both times, I pretended I didn't notice.

Though the loneliness creeps in whenever I cross the path of a forbidden friend, it's nothing compared to the terror I feel when I see a fellow Slytherin who knows my true blood status. I suspect the only reason I haven't been ratted out is because of Draco. Word spread quickly throughout Slytherin House that he and I are "together" and, so far, no one has dared to question it. Despite the Malfoy name losing a bit of its pull amongst the highest ranks of the Dark Side, Draco is still well respected at school; he is, after all, the only one who's taken the Mark and had a task bestowed upon him by the Dark Lord himself.

As for my own task, I'm getting nowhere. It's been a month since school began and I've found absolutely nothing to help me track down a Horcrux.

It would help if I had  _something_  to go on. All I know is Tom Riddle was in Slytherin, opened the Chamber of Secrets while he was a student, and generally enjoyed his time here. What I need to know is more about his history. I need to know who his friends were (if he had any), where he spent most of his time, and what his interests were. Otherwise, I'm wandering around investigating random objects to see if anything looks or feels off about them.

I've contemplated talking to the teachers, but that would raise far too much suspicion. The only ones who would potentially know anything – McGonagall, Slughorn, Flitwick, and the like – are all on the Order's side, so I can't risk speaking with them. Not to mention, they're all usually too busy secretly aiding the students who are victims of the Carrows' teachings.

Draco hasn't found anything yet, either. He's been home every weekend since school began, but from what he's told me, Death Eaters have been in and out every time he's been there. He hasn't had a moment alone with only his parents, much less some time to start sorting through things. He says there are a couple of rooms in the manor that he was never allowed in when he was young, and they're filled with old relics, heirlooms, and books. He reckons they'll be good places to have a look in when he gets the chance.

On a positive note, we've found a father for me. It took a fair bit of research in the new, Carrow-approved section of the library dedicated to pureblood history and superiority, but we came across a man named Everett Donoghue who fit the bill. He was an Irish wizard who wrote for the Daily Prophet, and he was living in a town near my mother's university while she was studying there. He died a few years ago in an Apparition accident. He had no wife, children, brothers, or sisters, and both of his parents are dead. He's perfect.

A knock on my bedroom door startles me.

"It's me," Draco says from the other side, like there was anyone else it could be.

"Door's unlocked."

Despite my invitation, he steps in rather cautiously, peering around the door as if he's expecting an attack. I suppose I can't blame him given the way the school's being run these days; you never know who could be holding a wand behind a seemingly safe door.

"Good evening."

"You can come in, you know. No need to hover in the doorway."

"Right." He steps in slowly and closes the door behind him. He stands there even though there's a vacant chair a few strides away from him. I give him a questioning look.

"Everything alright?"

He shakes his head. "No. Well, maybe. I don't know."

"What's going on?"

"There's... er... been a bit of a hiccup in the plan."

I can feel my heart plummet to the floor. My eyes quickly dart to the corner of my room where my emergency bag is lying. It's been packed since term began, just in case. Right beside it is a small jar of Floo Powder. If he tells me my cover's been blown, I'm ready to flee.

"Relax, you're still safe," he reassures, but I'm still apprehensive.

"What's the problem, then?" I ask urgently.

"I have to go back home this weekend. Er, tomorrow."

"So? You've gone home every weekend since we got here."

"Yes, but they want you to come with me this time."

"Who's  _they?"_

"My parents," he sighs. "They want to meet you."

"Why?"

"Because you're my  _girlfriend._  They're interested. That, and they don't know your family."

He says nothing more, but we both know what he's getting at. I'm not of pureblood name; they want to evaluate me, determine whether I'm worthy of their precious son. They want to know if he made a wise decision "leaving" Pansy.

Nonetheless, I think it's too risky.

"Can't you tell them I have an exam to study for or something?" I ask. "It just seems really unnecessary for me to go."

He shakes his head. "I tried talking them out of it, believe me, but they wouldn't have it. And seeing as I've never said no to them before, they'd know something was up if I refused. We're stuck, Ross."

I lean back against my headboard, not saying a word. I'm not prepared for this.  _We're_  not prepared for this. Draco and I know next to nothing about each other, and surely his mum and dad will ask some questions.

"I'm sorry," he mutters. "I didn't expect this."

"I know," I say, "but if it's what we have to do to keep our cover, it's what we'll do. When do we need to be there?"

"They're expecting us tomorrow at noon."

"Wonderful," I sigh. "That gives us no time to prepare."

"Prepare for what?"

"Malfoy, don't you think they'll want some sort of story?"

"Story about what?" Merlin, he can be thick sometimes.

"About us," I say. "I'm not likely someone you've mentioned frequently over the years, like Pansy or Daphne. I'm a bit out of the blue. They'll want to know how we got together, and why so suddenly."

"That's fair," he says with a nod. He finally saunters over to the chair, looking thoughtful and placing his hands on his knees after sitting down. "Alright. We were paired to work together for one of McGonagall's assignments at the end of last year."

"Flitwick."

"Huh?"

"Flitwick," I repeat. "McGonagall rarely lets students work in pairs, especially not the older ones, and your parents likely know that. Flitwick's be more believable."

"Okay, fine, Flitwick. Anyway, we became friendly while working on the assignment. We exchanged some letters over the summer, grew closer, and so on. At the start of the year, we decided to make it official. How's that sound?"

"Seems plausible. They won't fuss over details?"

"Doubt it," Draco says. "I'll be surprised if they even want to know that much."

"Alright, then. So, inform me, what else do I need to know about you?"

"What are you on about now?"

I roll my eyes. "Surely they'll expect me to know  _some_  things about you."

"Such as?"

"I don't bloody know," I say. "Basic things. When's your birthday?"

"The fifth of June. Yours?"

"The twenty-second of January. Family?"

"Is this really necessary?"

"Maybe not, but I'm not taking any chances."

Perhaps I am going a bit overboard, but I'd rather be safe than sorry. I haven't the faintest idea of how talkative the Malfoys will be; should anything remotely simple about Draco's home life come up, I don't want to appear as if it's all brand new to me.

"Fine," he relents. "Aside from my parents? My dad was an only child, so no aunts or uncles on that side. My mom has two sisters. I'm sure you know of my Aunt Bellatrix and Uncle Rodolphus. They never had children, and thank Merlin for that; they're horrible people. I've never met my only cousin; she's the daughter of my mother's disowned sister, Andromeda. We never speak of her, so if it comes up, you don't know her name, alright? All of my grandparents are dead."

He doesn't ask, but I give him the rundown of my family life, too.

"I live with my Aunt Maggie; she's my mum's older sister. When I was six or seven, she married my Uncle Aaron. They have two sons, my cousins Edgar and Jude. They're like brothers to me. And, as you know, my 'father' is Everett Donoghue, who's dead."

"And your mother?"

"Gone."

I don't understand why his face falls as I say it, but then it occurs to me that Draco genuinely never knew about my mother. It had never come up between the two of us; I'd just assumed everyone already knew.

"I'm sorry," he says sincerely. "I had no idea."

"It's alright. Well, not  _alright_ , but... it was a long time ago."

The silence that ensues is awkward and uncomfortable. I'm anticipating him to ask what happened, but he says nothing, and I'm not sure if it's out of respect or blatant disinterest. The room feels heavy with waiting – waiting for one of us to speak and carry on this game of pretending to care about one another.

"What's your middle name?" I finally ask. I was hoping he'd start a new topic, but patience has never been my strong suit.

"Lucius."

"Of course it is." I should have known that.

"It's tradition," he says with a shrug. "My father's middle name is Abraxas, after his father."

"And your first name is from?"

"My mother's family. They're mostly all celestial names."

"Got it."

"And your middle name would be?"

"Philippa."

"Philippa," he repeats. "Your name is Emmaleigh Philippa. That's a mouthful."

"Philippa was my mother's name, thank you very much."

"Oh," he mumbles sheepishly. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," I say. "It is rather lengthy."

"A bit, yeah."

"It was Aunt Maggie's idea. Evidently, my mum intended for my first name to be Emma and my middle name to be Leigh. My aunt molded the two together so I could have my mum's name, too."

Draco nodded. "It's creative. I'll give her that."

"Is there anything else I should know?"

"Nothing that would impact our cover if you didn't," he answers. "Listen, I know my parents. They're not going to ask many questions. As long as we act normal, everything will be fine. It's only a short visit."

"And should we be expecting anyone else?" I don't elaborate, but with the way his mouth curls in disgust, it's safe to assume he knows exactly who I'm talking about.

"There's always the chance of visits from… the others."

"And You-Know-Who?"

"Haven't seen him around since summer. He's too busy doing Merlin knows what."

_Yes,_  I think,  _too busy trying to figure out how to murder one of my friends, annihilate people like me, and slaughter anyone who gets so much as a toe in his way._

"Right, then," Draco says after a short silence. "I'll see you in the morning. Meet me in the Entrance Hall around 11:45?"

"Alright."

He says nothing more, only nods and exits the room. It's cold and impersonal, but I suppose it's better than the way he's acted in previous years. I'll take it.

A bit more unsettled than before, I lay back down against my pillow and surround myself with my emerald quilt, willing sleep to come. And it almost does until I realize I have absolutely nothing to wear tomorrow. Reluctantly, I heave myself out of bed and over to my wardrobe to get to work.

* * *

I skipped breakfast this morning. While I did nibble on the raisin scones that were brought up, I didn't bother attempting a full meal; I was far too nervous to eat. I'm regretting it now, especially since my stomach is growling so loudly you'd think I scarfed down a living tiger.

I look at myself in the mirror a final time, barely even believing it's me. I can't show up to the Malfoys' in jeans and a jumper, so I did the best I could with the spells I knew to transform the only dress I own into something a bit more...  _dark_. Sadly enough, I had to think of Pansy's weekend clothes as an example. The result is a slightly lacy black dress than falls to the knee, a pair of black boots with silver buckles, and a skull on a silver chain wrapped around my neck.

Even though they're a bit dry from sitting out all morning, I grab one of the leftover scones on my way out of the dormitory and wolf it down. As instructed, I head down to the entrance hall. Draco gives me a look when he sees me.

"Too much?" I ask.

"A bit," he says. "The dress and shoes are fine, but… it's the necklace. May I?"

I nod, and he points his wand directly at my chest. I figure this should make me nervous, but it doesn't. With a nonverbal spell, Draco changes the skull to a teardrop-shaped emerald.

"A skull. Really, Ross?"

"I don't know," I say with a shrug. "I just figured with the Dark Mark-"

"It doesn't matter. Let's go."

He abruptly grabs my hand and leads me out the door. On instinct, I want to yank my hand free, but decide it's best to play up the façade, especially when we cross paths with Professor Snape on our way across the grounds.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy," he says curtly, "and… Miss Ross." His black eyes flicker to our joined hands. "And where, may I ask, are the two of you off to?"

I open my mouth to respond, but Draco beats me to it.

"The Manor," he responds calmly. "Father asked for me to return this weekend."

"I am well aware of your weekend arrangements, Mr. Malfoy," says Snape. "However, I was not under the impression you would have company."

"Father's request," Draco answered.

"On what grounds?"

"He wants to meet her. She's my girlfriend."

"Your…  _girlfriend_."

"Yes, Professor."

Snape eyes me for a moment, and it takes all my willpower not to flinch or show any signs of panic.

"Very well," Snape says, though his tone indicates suspicion and a promise that we'll be under his watchful eye. "Miss Ross is of age. There is no need for me to seek the permission of a parent. Excuse me…  _guardian_."

I swear I can see the corner of his mouth flinch, as if he's holding back a grin.

"You know the rules, Mr. Malfoy. Be back by tomorrow at sundown."

"Certainly. Have a good weekend, Sir."

Draco and I are silent until we cross the boundary where we are able to Apparate.

"Wait," I say suddenly as Draco takes out his wand. "Before we go, I…"

I don't even know what I want to say. In fact, I don't think I want to say anything. I just want to turn and run back to the castle, back to my dormitory, back to my emergency bag and Floo Powder so I can run some more, and far away.

For the first time since meeting Draco on the Astronomy Tower a month ago, I'm wary of trusting him, because I'm now realizing I'm not only trusting him with my secret, but with my life. I'll wind up dead if there is so much as a hiccup on this little trip to Malfoy Manor. I was so stupid to suggest this plan. I should've foreseen it spiraling out of control. I-

"Ross, it's going to be fine," Draco says for what is likely the hundredth time. "We've got our talking points. We're prepared."

"Are we, though?" I ask incredulously. "What if our research on Donoghue was flawed, huh? What if we're asked a question about each other that we can't answer? You saw Snape! He was suspicious, and we know he's in contact with people who're probably much worse than your parents could ever be! Anything could go wrong, Malfoy! And in case you've forgotten, I could end up killed if I'm caught!"

"You think I don't know that?" Draco spat back. He surprises me with his hushed fury, his brow crinkled in both anger and disbelief. "This isn't just about you, you know! I'm risking my own skin, too. Do you honestly think that if we're caught, I'll be let off with a slap on the wrist? Fat chance! Lord knows what they'll do if they find out I'm concealing a Muggleborn."

"Wh-what?"

He rolls his eyes. "It means they'll probably kill me, too, Ross. Follow along."

"No, not that," I murmur. "You called me a Muggleborn."

"And? That's what you are, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but… you've always called me Mudblood."

He stares at me. His grey-blue eyes become clouded with something that resembles hurt.

"After everything you heard that night," he says in an almost-whisper. "After everything I told you, after agreeing to  _team up_  with you, you should bloody know where my loyalties lie, where my heart really is. Christ, Ross…"

The guilt washes over me. I get why he's upset. Only the cruelest of wizards use such a foul name, and the reminder that he, too, once used it so frivolously implies that he's like them.

"Malfoy, I-"

"Save it," he says, taking my hand. "We have to go. Remember: act normal."

And without another word, he Disapparates on the spot, pulling me in with him.

Moments later, we land in front of a large manor. It's dark, a silhouette against the bright blue sky, and is surrounded by a tall, black fence. The front gate opens as we approach, no doubt thanks to a nonverbal spell from one of the guards who, upon seeing Draco, offers a curt nod to us both.

The inside of the house isn't much brighter. The sitting room, where Draco says we are to wait for his parents, is grim and gloomy. A few portraits of menacing-looking Malfoy ancestors grace the walls, and a silver chandelier from the ceiling. There aren't any candles in it.

"You look stiff," Draco comments after a couple of minutes. "Relax. I mean, unless you  _want_  to get caught."

I shoot him a look, but oblige by taking a deep breath and willing my body to calm down.

"Should we sit, or-?"

"Don't bother. I can hear them."

And sure enough, a second later I, too, can hear footsteps on the nearby stairs. Without warning, Draco slips his arm around my shoulder and points to one of the portraits on the walls.

"And that one right there is my great-grandfather, Tiberius," he says. I do my best to look interested. "He passed away from a nasty bout of dragon pox… a terrible loss, he was a very gifted wizard… ah! Father! Mother!"

We both turn to the entrance of the sitting room, and there are Draco's parents. Both have platinum blonde hair, like him. His mother holds her head high and looks as if she's been petrified, almost to the point where it's ironic that Draco was saying  _I_  looked stiff. His father, meanwhile, is wearing what is most likely a sneer on his extremely pale, gaunt face. The man, for all his wealth, almost looks malnourished, and I wonder if the stress of being a Death Eater is getting to him.

"Draco, darling," his mother says, holding out her arms for a hug. Draco hugs his mother and shakes his father's hand before gesturing for me to come forward.

"Father, Mother, allow me you introduce you to Emmaleigh Ross."

"Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy," I say, extending my hand first to Lucius, "It's a pleasure to finally get to meet you. Draco's told me so much. And to be in your lovely home… it's truly an honor."

"The pleasure's all mine," Lucius says as he shakes my hand, though he doesn't sound the least bit convincing. He's eyeing me curiously, and I can almost hear him thinking  _"what is this half-blood doing in my house?"_

"It's wonderful to finally meet you," says Narcissa. She sounds slightly more convincing, but barely. "Draco was most eager to bring you here."

I hope for Draco to say something, but he's frustratingly silent. I jump in instead.

"I suspect that's partially my fault," I say with a smile. "I kept asking him to allow me meet the two of you."

"Indeed," Lucius says coldly. "I do hope you enjoy our home. You and Cissy shall have plenty of time to get to know one another while Draco and I are in Diagon Alley."

"Diagon Alley, Father?" Draco asks.

"I need a few things. Surely you won't mind keeping me company?" It sounds like he's challenging Draco, almost as if he's in on our charade and is daring his son to make a move.

"Not at all," Draco says. He turns to me calmly, though I can sense a small bit of discomfort. "You'll be alright here for a while, love?"

I nod and smile, though on the inside, I'm screaming. What am I supposed to discuss with Narcissa while they're gone?

"Excellent."

He steps in front of me then, and does something I never expected: he kisses me. It is brief and chaste, but a kiss nonetheless, and he even throws in a hug for good measure. I reciprocate the gesture, but it's like I'm not really there. It's as if I'm outside of my own body watching me, a Muggleborn friend of Harry Potter, kiss pureblood Draco Malfoy in front of his pureblood parents and the portraits of his pureblood ancestors, in the middle of a home devoted to pureblood superiority. If the situation weren't so dire, I'd laugh.

"I'll buy you something pretty," Draco says in a hushed tone, but loud enough for his parents to hear. I'm not sure what to say, so I just smile and hope that's enough.

"Come, Draco," says Lucius.

Without another word, the two men leave, leaving me with Narcissa.

"Well, then," Narcissa says, "I suppose I should give you the tour."

She doesn't ask, but instead gestures for me to follow. I only half-listen as she shows me around the first floor, emphasizing the elegance of her possessions. Instead, my mind wanders to a few moments ago when Draco Malfoy kissed me.

I have only kissed two boys in my life. Dean Thomas was the first, in fourth year. We attended the Yule Ball together as friends and, for some reason I have yet to understand, ended the evening with a kiss that left me wondering for several weeks if I liked him as more than a friend. I didn't, and I'm guessing he felt the same, because we never once discussed it. The second was Ernie Macmillan, and I kissed him more times than I can remember. We spent the end of fifth year and much of sixth year together.

Yet somehow, despite my kiss with Dean being my first ever and my kisses with Ernie being with someone I really liked, my unexpected and barely-there kiss with Draco Malfoy feels infinitely more important, and I can't quite figure out why.

"And this is the library," Narcissa says, leading me into a room with walls lined with bookshelves reaching the ceiling. I can feel my eyes widen. This room is likely packed with information and history; who knows what knowledge I could find in here if I was granted the time to search.

Narcissa, evidently, senses my excitement.

"You like this room," she comments.

"I do," I say with a nod. "I… I really like to read." This is only partial lie. I don't  _mind_ reading, but it's usually not the first thing I choose to do with free time.

"Well, then, perhaps Draco can show you around in here a bit more," she says, once again beckoning for me to follow.

We pass a few guest bedrooms before passing the first closed door. Narcissa doesn't stop to open it and show me what's inside.

"We won't go in there," she says. "I'm afraid it's a terrible mess."

That, I assume, must be one of the rooms Draco was talking about: a room filled with heirlooms and relics, and one he was never allowed to go in. I'm suddenly much more interested in what's behind that door than what can be found in any of the thousands of books in the Malfoys' library.

We end up in the kitchen and Narcissa immediately waves her wand at the tea kettle resting on the stove.

"What did you say your surname was again?" Narcissa asks. I'm surprised it took her this long.

"Ross."

"Ross," she repeats. "I'm not familiar with it."

I open my mouth to launch into the story of how my mother was a "filthy Muggle", but I catch Narcissa eyeing me curiously.

"It's just so strange," she says. "I know nothing of your name, yet you seem so familiar to me. Do I know your mother?"

It is the last thing I expect to hear. I shake my head slowly.

"I don't think so," I answer. "My mother was a… a  _Muggle_." I try to look ashamed as I say it, but Narcissa isn't even looking at me. Her eyes are focused upward in thought, as if she's looking through her mind for something.

"I see," she says curtly, turning her attention back to the kettle for a moment. "Yes, Draco did tell me about that. You're half-blood?"

"Yes."

"And your father was?"

"Donoghue," I answer quickly. "Everett Donoghue. From Ireland. His blood was pure."

Narcissa raises an eyebrow. "Was?"

"He passed away in an Apparition accident."

"I see," she says again. "I most sorry to hear that."

Unsure of what to say, I remain silent. Narcissa, however, stares me down curiously, ignoring the kettle as it begins to whistle.

"Are you quite sure we've never met before?"

I nod. "I truly don't think we have."

"Hm," is all she says as she levitates the kettle, two cups, two spoons, a sugar dish, and a small, silver pitcher I can only assume contains milk. "Perhaps we crossed paths in another life, then."

She doesn't ask me to follow her to the adjacent dining room, but I do anyway, and from there we make polite conversation about what Draco and I are learning at Hogwarts this year. It's mundane and tame, which I'm extremely grateful for. One, it's easy to discuss, as there's hardly a chance that mindless chatter about school will blow my cover. Two, I don't have to be entirely invested in it; my mind can continue to ponder why Narcissa Malfoy, of all people, considered me familiar and was continuing to look at me with intent curiosity.

As the minutes on the nearby grandfather clock tick away, I want nothing more than for Draco to return and be at my side. I never in a million years anticipated wanting that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


	4. A Father's Warning

****  
_Chapter art by callisto @ TDA_

**_Chapter Four – A Father’s Warning  
_** **_~Draco~_ **

“You have your wand, I’m sure?” my father asks as we step outside.

“Always.”

I know why he’s asking. We’ll need to Apparate, and that’s extremely difficult to do without a wand. I can only assume the Dark Lord still has my father’s. Perhaps that’s why he appears so on-edge about leaving the house. In fact, I’m sure that’s the reason; the last thing I’d want to be in these times is wandless.

“Do you remember your grandfather’s house?”

“Which one?”

“Your grandfather Abraxas.”

“Of course. Why?”

“No reason.”

I know it’s a lie, but I don’t question it any further as we’re within earshot of the guards now. As daft as they can be, I don’t trust them even with hearing a simple, innocent conversation between father and son. Who knows how they’d construe something taken out of context and, if provided the opportunity, present it to the Dark Lord as a ticket to higher ranks?

I trust no one. Not even Emmaleigh. Perhaps I will in time, but for now, I still have my guard up. I’m sure she does, too.

After a loud _crack!_ , we arrive in Diagon Alley. It’s jarring how much the place has changed in such a short period of time. I was here merely two months ago purchasing supplies and new robes for the upcoming school year. It was, as usual, colorful and bustling with shoppers, though not nearly as many as there have been in recent years. Now, it’s cold and empty, and I’m certain it’s not solely because of the cool autumn air and the school shopping season having long since ended.

Many of the shops have been abandoned. Some of these are old news: no one had taken over Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream shop and Mr. Ollivander, of course, has been preoccupied with being held captive in our basement since last summer. Quality Quidditch Supplies, which I remember being open this summer, has closed its doors, and it even seems like Madam Malkin has fled. Unsurprisingly, Weasleys Wizard Wheezes is locked up too, though as we pass the storefront, I can spot a sign on the door that looks suspiciously like a notice about mail orders.

There’s also a distinct chill in the air, rather frigid for October, and I can only assume Dementors are near, searching for blood traitors and Muggleborns on the run.

“Where do you need to go, Father?”

It’s a near futile attempt, but I try to hide the urgency in my voice. I really want us to get back to the Manor as quickly as possible. I don’t like the idea of my mother talking to Emmaleigh alone.

“Borgin and Burkes, for one,” he answers. This doesn’t surprise me. “And I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to stop in Mulpepper’s. And you need to stop in Twilfitt and Tatting’s, I presume?”

I raise an eyebrow. That’s the store where my mother buys her clothes and accessories.

“Why would I need to go there?”

“You told Emmaleigh you were going to get her something, so I assumed-“

“Oh, that,” I say. “I can do that another time. Christmas isn’t for another couple of months-“

“No,” my father interrupts. “We’ll be sure to get it done today.”

I don’t bother arguing as we step into Gringotts. Before long, we’re on a cart heading toward our vaults. We stop at my parents’ first, then mine. I was granted access to mine at the beginning of summer now that I’m seventeen. There’s enough in there to get my life started once I leave Hogwarts. Though I’m grateful for it, I almost wish I didn’t have it. Who knows where that money came from, or what deeds my parents had committed in order to get it.

After the bank, we turn into Knockturn Alley in silence, save for an occasional greeting to a passerby. We step into Borgin and Burkes first and, knowing that my father tends to have lengthy conversations with whichever owner is running the shop, I wander off to find something interesting to occupy my time. However, to my surprise, my father quickly finds something, makes polite small talk with Borgin for about a minute, then hands over some gold and makes for the door, gesturing for me to follow. This is intriguing, as my father usually takes his time hunting down the perfect object in Borgin and Burkes, but I’m not about to complain.

Curiously, he does this in a couple of other stops, too. He walks in, grabs a random item, pays, and leaves, but not before having a small chat with whomever he deals with. We spend no more than thirty minutes total in Knockturn Alley before we’re heading back in the direction we came.

“Father, is everything-“ I begin to ask, but he shushes me and doesn’t speak until we’re in the small walkway connecting Diagon and Knockturn Alleys. He looks over his shoulder before speaking.

“You remember your grandfather’s house?” he asks me again. “Where it is? What it looks like?”

“What? Yes, I’ve already-“

“Good. Bring us there.”

“What?” I say again, bewildered. My grandfather died years ago; what was the point of visiting his estate? “Why would-“

“Hurry, Draco, before someone sees…”

My father is typically calm and collected, but there is a rare urgency in his voice as it trails off. He looks over his shoulder again, then over mine before offering me a subtle nod. He’s acting so strange, and though part of me doesn’t want to know why, my curiosity gets the better of me. I Disapparate on the spot, focusing on my grandfather’s estate in Northumberland and pulling my father along with me.

We land on the step directly in front of the enormous, onyx front door. My father pulls a bronze key from his pocket, revealing the sitting room that we cautiously step into (because in these times, one can never be too sure). It’s exactly how I remember it: royal blue walls adorned with portraits, black furniture throughout, and a large, silver chandelier hanging above. A layer of dust covers everything, which is different; my grandfather had always made sure the house-elves kept the place meticulous.

“Your grandfather bequeathed this manor to you in his will,” my father says as he walks deeper into the sitting room. “Once you leave Hogwarts, it’s yours. Come to think of it, it actually is yours now, seeing as you’re of age.”

I nod. “I know. You told me when he passed.”

Whether I keep this place or not remains to be seen. I never really liked it much, but I suppose I should hang on to it. It’s been in the family for six generations.

My father empties his pockets of the things he purchased in Knockturn Alley, dumping them unceremoniously on an end table. A small figurine topples over and lands on the carpet, and he makes no move to pick it up.

“Father,” I begin, “why are we here?”

“You never know who will show up at our home, or if anyone’s watching,” he says. “Too many eyes and ears. Sit. We need to talk.”

I comply, a bit of dust flying into the air as I lower myself onto the onyx cushion of a chair. I lay my wand upon the neighboring end table for easy access, just in case.

“How are things at Hogwarts?” he asks.

“Fine,” I answer with a shrug. “The work is challenging, but with NEWTs-“

My father cuts me off. “What is going on at school with the students? The teachers?”

“Erm…” I don’t really know what to say. Is it prudent to tell your Death Eater father, a loyal follower of Lord Voldemort, that you’re sickened by the newest staff members’ treatment of students, by the way the Headmaster deliberately turns a blind eye? “It’s… tense,” I finally say. It’s sugarcoated, but not a lie.

“Tense in what way?”

“Well, I’m sure you know of the Carrows.”

“Of course. They were selected by the Dark Lord himself.”

“Right.”

“I’ve been told they’re using the Cruciatus on students?”

I nod. “They are. They’re encouraging other students to participate.”

“Which students, may I ask, are being subjected to their curses? After all, the school is now free of Mudbloods.”

It takes all my willpower to maintain a stoic face, to not snap at him. I think of Emmaleigh back at the Manor and how the man in front of me would react if he were to find out her true blood status. Part of me thinks he’d die from shock before he even had the chance to attempt a curse.

“They’re going after the outspoken ones, it seems,” I say. “Longbottom has gotten it once or twice, I think. Anyone associated with Potter is under close watch.”

My father nods. “And you?”

“Me?”

“Have you partaken?”

“No!” It comes out as a hasty exclamation, so I try to explain and cover my disgust. “No. I’m not taking Muggle Studies, and as for Dark Arts… there are always a few who volunteer.”

“Good,” he says, nodding again. “That’s good.”

I can’t hide the inquiry and surprise on my face. Why is my father, of all people, claiming it’s good that I’m not taking part in the torture of Potter’s supporters?

“Stay away from it, Draco, for as long as you can,” my father explains. “Our name doesn’t protect us the way it once did. We are still respected amongst the ranks, as we both have the Mark, but we’re on thin ice. A few years ago, I made a grave error by losing one of the Dark Lord’s most prized possessions, an object he trusted me to care for. A year ago, I failed him again in the Department of Mysteries. And after last year on the Astronomy Tower…”

His voice trails off, but I know what he’s getting at. Though the deed was done, it had not been carried out by me as planned. When my moment came, I failed.

“Though the Dark Lord still trusts us, I’m afraid that trust is running low, and we’re perceived as weak amongst his followers.”

“What does this have to do with the Carrows?” I ask.

“It has nothing to do with the Carrows, but with you. Avoid them. If they attempt to pull you into their charade, you’ll have no choice but to oblige, and I think you know why that cannot happen.”

He doesn’t explain, but there’s no need, because he’s right: it can’t happen. If I’m asked to participate in the torture of classmates, I’ll fail. The Unforgiveables require a want, a passion, a desire, and I have none of those things. I don’t want to harm a fellow student, just like I did not want to murder Dumbledore.

And if a Malfoy, yet again, fails to perform a Dark deed, there’s a fair chance punishment will follow, and who knows to what degree?

“Your girlfriend is a half-blood.” It’s a statement, not a question, though there’s a hint of inquiry in his voice, a silent request for more information.

“She is. Emmaleigh’s father was a Donoghue, one of the old pureblood families in Ireland.”

“I see. And has she, too, been keeping her head down?”

“I… er, I suppose? What do you mean?”

“Is she staying out of trouble?”

“Of course she is. She’s not the type to go out of her way to draw attention to herself, especially not in these times. Why?”

“Because it is only a matter of time before Potter’s supporters are tortured to submission. There aren’t any Mudbloods for them to go after. You know who’s next.”

“But… she’s in Slytherin,” I say. “Surely they’ll leave Slytherins alone? Especially one who’s with a Death Eater?”

“Perhaps they will.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“The obvious answer is she’s not of pure ancestry, Slytherin or not,” my father says.

“And the not obvious answer?”

My father is silent for a minute before responding. He leans forward to pick up the figurine that had toppled off the table. He fidgets with it for a moment, rolling it between his fingers and staring ahead at nothing.

“You care about this girl?” he asks.

I don’t respond right away, mainly because my initial reaction is to say that no, I truly don’t care about Emmaleigh Ross. We aren’t really together, anyway, and not even actual friends. We have a mutual understanding that we’re working together to save our own skin and, if we’re lucky, help end this regime once and for all.

But, friends or not, I don’t want to see her get hurt, especially not on my account. I suppose that’s my answer.

“Yes,” I say to my father with a nod. “Yes, I do.”

“Then what I said earlier is more important than ever,” he says, an unusually insistent tone in his voice. “Keep your head down, Draco. Tell Emmaleigh to do the same. Believe me when I say that many in the ranks are looking for any chance, any reason, to bring down our family. They could hurt her to punish you. Do you understand?”

I nod again. “I understand, father.”

“And you understand, I’m sure, that this does not only refer to the Carrows?”

He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t have to. My stomach churns as I reminded once again about the people who are captured and brought to our home by the Snatchers. My aunt, uncle, and others do their worst. If Emmaleigh is ever discovered to be a Muggleborn or is otherwise under scrutiny because of me, and she’s brought there, I’ll never forgive myself.

My father, evidently sensing my panic, speaks again in an almost-whisper.

“You still have a claim.”

I’d been staring at the ground between my feet, so I raise my head to look at him.

“Sorry?”

“A claim,” he repeats. “Because you’ve taken the Mark, if anyone is brought in that you want for your own… well, you can claim that person.”

My eyes widen in a mix of shock and disgust. Surely, he can’t be serious. Is this a thing that the rest of them are actually doing? What’s the point of “claiming” captives as one’s own? So they get the pleasure of being that person’s sole torturer?

Just how many, I wonder, have already been claimed? How many innocents have been subjected to this?

“What would I want to do that for?”

“Draco, I’m your father, and I know you better than most. I’m also not a stupid man. I know you wish you hadn’t taken the Mark. I know you no longer want any part in this. Perhaps you never truly did. And even if you had, I’m sure you’ve realized that things have gone too far.”

I’m once again struck silent, hardly believing my ears. My father, who took the Mark young, who’s praised the Dark Lord’s ways for as long as I can remember, who even went to Azkaban on his account, is criticizing the Cause? It sounds ludicrous, yet here he is, unflinching but shaking ever so slightly, his face gaunt and scared. I hadn’t noticed until now just how unwell he looks. He continues to fidget with the figurine in his hand, and I wonder if he’s only doing it in a futile attempt to quell the incomplete feeling that comes with the absence of a wand.

“But,” he continues, “our family is in too deep to question anything now. That includes you. For better or worse, Draco, we have to play the game. We have to look out for ourselves, now more than ever. And if keeping up with the Dark Lord’s ways is the only card to play, then it’s what we must do, whether we like it or not.”

My father, I know, will never outright say that he’s wavering in his devotion, that he’s begun to question the Cause. There’s a shame in that, a humiliation, and I understand why. I felt it, too. It’s humbling to realize you were wrong, but even more so, it’s terrifying. I’ve known for a while now we’re on the wrong side of this regime and there’s no backing out. Now, it’s follow suit or be killed. There’s no way to win.

I don’t vocalize it, but it’s almost comforting that my father is at the very least reevaluating his loyalties, even if it might be for purely selfish reasons. At least I know I’m not entirely alone. I wonder if my mother is, too.

“I’m not suggesting that you use your claim as intended,” he says. “You can, however, pretend.”

“What exactly are you getting at?”

“Use it to rescue a person. You will, of course, need to act as though the person is receiving punishment. They’ll likely have to be held in our house. However, if you act it well, you could very well save a captive from an unjust end.”

I nod. “Then I will. The next person who gets brought in, I – what?”

I stop when I see that my father is shaking his head.

“I suggest you save it,” he says. “For Emmaleigh.”

“But she’s a half-blood! She’s with me!”

“Have you not been listening, Draco? Our family is vulnerable, as are any who are close to us. As much as you try to keep your head down, as hard as you work to stay out of things, anything can go wrong! That claim is valuable. Save it for when it matters, just in case.”

I don’t argue, although all I want to do is tell him that every single person who gets dragged through our front door matters to someone, somewhere. But when I think about it, he has a fair point. This claim that I apparently have could be put to good use, and I can’t imagine a better person to use it for then Emmaleigh. After all, if she does end up in some sort a trouble, there will be a very good possibility her association with me is the reason.

“I’m truly sorry, Draco,” my father says after a while. His voice is quiet and subdued, almost a whisper.

“Father?”

“This is my fault. All my fault. You would have never been pulled into this had it not been for my arrogance. You would have had a normal life. I would not have had to buy a bunch of meaningless trinkets to show that I was, in fact, in Diagon and Knockturn Alleys today in case anyone questions our whereabouts. I would not have needed shop owners to vouch for us, just so I could have a private conversation with you. I’m so, so very sorry.”

There’s nothing more for me to say, so I offer him a quiet nod in acknowledgement. I notice he hasn’t said anything about his beliefs changing. He’s not sorry for raising me on the idea that anyone whose blood is not pure is worth less than us and that Muggles are scum. No, he’s only sorry that the Malfoy name has soured. He’s mourning his loss of power, of control, of status. That’s the difference between him and I. Maybe he’ll get there one day.

In shared silence, we leave my grandfather’s house, not bothering to take the items from our shopping trip with us. We Apparate back to the walkway connecting Diagon and Knockturn Alleys. Before heading back home, my father reminds me to pick up Emmaleigh’s present. At his suggestion, I go into Twilfitt and Tatting’s and easily find a bracelet that matches the necklace I transfigured for her earlier today. It’s a little pricey, but a worthy investment to play up our game.

After all, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy would never believe their son would purchase something so precious for a Muggleborn.

* * *

Before long, Emmaleigh and I are back in our shared common room after leaving my parents’ house. We didn’t linger there long after dinner; thankfully, they bought it when I told them we needed to get back to the mountain of schoolwork waiting for us. I don’t know what we’d have done if they insisted we stay longer, as we could only drag on mundane discussions about school for so long.

There’s already tea and scones waiting for us on the small table between the two sofas. I busy myself making a couple of cups and ask, “How did things go?”

“What do you mean?”

“With my mother, of course.” It comes out more condescending than I intend. “The two of you must have talked, after all.”

I’m actually quite interested in what Emmaleigh discussed with my mother. Obviously, their possible topics of conversation were limited, and my father and I were gone for at least an hour, probably more.

 “Nothing really. School, mostly. And my family.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Your family?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “She asked about my blood status. Thanks,” she adds, taking a sip of her tea.

“And? How’d that go?”

“Didn’t last long. I told her about Donoghue and she didn’t question it. She did ask about my mother, though.”

“I don’t know why,” I say. “I already told her and my father that your mother was a Muggle. Did she not believe me?”

“She did, I think,” she murmurs slowly. She gingerly takes another sip of tea while looking absentmindedly at the floor.

“What, then?” I urge. “She didn’t try to back you into a corner, did she?”

“No, nothing like that,” Emmaleigh says. “But she, erm… she asked if there was any chance she knew her.”

“Any chance she knew your mother?” I ask. “Why?”

Emmaleigh shrugs. “She said I looked familiar.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” she says, “but she asked a couple of times.”

“You’re sure you’re Muggleborn, right?” I ask. “There’s no chance your mother went to Hogwarts?”

“Definitely not,” she answers. “My aunt would have said something, wouldn’t she? Not to mention, she went to university. How many witches do you know who leave Hogwarts to go to Muggle university?”

It’s hard to argue with that.

 “Weird,” I say. “She must have seen you in Diagon Alley once, or maybe even at Platform 9 ¾. That’s probably it.”

“Maybe.”

I briefly consider the possibility that her real father is a wizard, but I immediately strike that down, too. It wouldn’t make a whole lot of sense for a wizard to attend Muggle university, either. I opt to let the topic die, chalking it up to nothing but a bizarre coincidence. That, or my mother suspects we’re up to something and she was trying to trick Emmaleigh into messing up her story.

“Your family has quite the library,” Emmaleigh comments after a minute.

“Ah,” I say with a smile. “Mother couldn’t resist giving you the grand tour, could she?”

“It wasn’t that bad. Didn’t show me certain rooms, though. Said they were messy.”

“They aren’t,” I say. “Well, they _are_ , sort of, but that’s not the reason she didn’t show them to you. Remember me telling you I wasn’t allowed in certain rooms?”

“Yeah, I figured that’s what they were. Surely you’re allowed in them now?”

I nod. “They’re really not that exciting. Filled with a bunch of old junk.”

“You don’t think-“

I cut her off. “I really don’t think there would be anything of value in there.”

“But surely it wouldn’t hurt to look? If we ever go back, I mean.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll be back,” I say grimly. “And… yeah, I guess we could try. But honestly, after my father was sentenced to Azkaban, I’m sure anything of value was taken during the Ministry raid…”

My voice trails off, thinking back to the conversation my father and I had in my grandfather’s manor.

_I made a grave error by losing one of the Dark Lord’s most prized possessions_ , he had said. _An object he trusted me to care for._

Could that have been a Horcrux? And if it was, whose hands did it fall into?

“What is it?” Emmaleigh asks urgently, sensing my dread. I tell he what my father said, and she surprises me by smiling. “Don’t worry. Harry destroyed that one years ago. Didn’t even realize it was a Horcrux at the time.”

“He… what? But how?”

“Stabbed it with a basilisk fang in the Chamber of Secrets. Remember I said two of them were destroyed already? One was a diary your father was keeping. I thought you’d known your father lost it?”

“No. He was probably too embarrassed to admit it. But if what you’re saying is true and my father already lost one… Ross, I doubt the Dark Lord would have trusted him with another.”

“You’re probably right. But, you just said the Ministry raided your house when your father was arrested, right?” she adds thoughtfully. “That means it was cleared. Could Voldemort could have hidden something there after the fact, knowing that it has already been thoroughly searched?”

“I guess that’s possible.”

“Even if there isn’t an actual Horcrux,” she continues, “there could be clues. We could overhear something your parents or… _guests_ … discuss. It’s worth a try, right?”

I nod, placing my teacup back on the table. I really don’t think we’re likely to find anything in my family’s home, but we must start somewhere, and that’s as good a place as any.

“How’d it go with you and your dad, anyhow?” she asks. “You both were gone for quite a while and didn’t come home with anything. Except the bracelet, I mean. Were you in Diagon Alley the whole time?”

I was hoping she wouldn’t ask. If earlier this afternoon before we Apparated to the Manor was any indication, Emmaleigh’s courage is on thin ice. The last thing she needs to hear about is my father warning me how she may be under more scrutiny with me than she would have been without me, which is the opposite of what we’d hoped for.

“Malfoy,” she urges. I swear, nothing gets by her. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” I answer. “We did go to Diagon and Knockturn Alleys, but we spent most of the time at my grandfather’s estate.”

“What for?”

“So we wouldn’t be overheard.”

I recount my father’s warning. I tell her how he thinks the Carrows will soon be terrorizing half-bloods and how I’ve got to watch my step. I don’t tell her how it might affect her, but she seems to infer it nonetheless, as her already fair face goes pale, her freckles more prominent than ever. She doesn’t say anything until I tell her about the claim I apparently have.

“A claim?” she asks incredulously. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

“But your dad is right,” she adds. “You can use that to help someone.”

“He suggested I save it for you. You know… just in case.”

Emmaleigh considers this for a moment, but eventually shakes her head.

“No,” she says.

“But-“

“But nothing. If you’re able to use it to save an innocent person from torture or worse, then you should. Don’t let someone suffer if you can avoid it.”

“But what about you?”

“What about me? I’m with you, and today, I _think_ , went smoothly. As long as we’re careful, we’ll be able to keep this up for a while. And with any luck, this will all be over sooner rather than later, and maybe we won’t have to play it up for long. So thank you, but… if the need arises, use it. Don’t worry about me.”

There’s no point in arguing with her. I’ve learned that she’s stubborn and resilient. Admittedly, it’s admirable, but I hope it doesn’t get her into trouble one of these days.

“Anyway,” she says, standing up. “I should probably get some homework done. I know we just said that to get ourselves back to Hogwarts, but I really do have quite a bit to do.”

“Yeah, me too.” I stand up, too, raising an eyebrow when I see her hand go to her wrist.

“Here,” she says, unfastening the bracelet I presented her with back at the Manor. “It’s gorgeous, but I’m sure you want it back?” She hands the silver bracelet to me, but I wave a hand.

“No, you keep it.”

“Malfoy, come on,” she says with a small laugh. “I know you only bought it for the same reason you kissed me: to make our story more believable to your parents. You should get your money back. It must have been really expensive.”

“It wasn’t that bad, but… no. It doesn’t matter. Keep it,” I repeat. “Really. You figure we’ll probably be going to the Manor again at some point. You can wear it then.”

Emmaleigh nods. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. And if it makes you feel better, you can think of it as a thank-you present,” I add. “You know, for helping out. I know it’s a lot.”

“You’re helping me, too.”

“I know, but still.”

“Thanks,” she says with a smile, putting the bracelet back on her wrist. “It really is beautiful. And hey, I’m really sorry about earlier. Before we Apparated,” she clarifies when I tilt my head in confusion. “When I insinuated… I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine,” I say. “Don’t worry about it. Really,” I quickly add when I see she’s about to protest. “It’s done.”

“Right, then. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow. Good night.”

“’Night.”

I can’t help staring at Emmaleigh’s door after she disappears behind it, and that bothers me. I can’t figure out why I wish she hadn’t gone. Just like I can’t figure out why I kissed her earlier.

Maybe she was right: perhaps I really had only done it to make our story more convincing to my parents. If that were true, though, wouldn’t the thought have crossed my mind before kissing her? Wouldn’t the act have been planned? It certainly wasn’t. I didn’t realize what I was doing until my lips were already pressed to hers, as if kissing her was already second nature.

It becomes a bit more clear once I’m back in my own bedroom. It all starts to seep in again: the dread, the fear, the isolation. The feelings aren’t anything new, as I’d never truly had friends. Sure, there were Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, Zabini, and Nott, but I know now more than ever that they were merely acquaintances, people to talk with to help pass the time. I never shared secrets with them or showed them who I really am, even when I finally figured out who that was.

I’m still cautious, but Emmaleigh is, for better or worse, the only person who knows the real me. I didn’t know how much I needed that, how much weight it would lift from my shoulders. When she’s around, I don’t feel as lonely.

It’s rather nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


	5. Relics and Uncertainties

  
_Chapter art by Caren @ TDA_

_**Chapter Five – Relics and Uncertainties  
** _ _**~Emmaleigh~** _

 

The library is so empty that the sound of my quill seems to echo as it scratches away against a faded piece of parchment. Very few students come here anymore after dinner, and I can’t say I blame them. Crowded as they can get, the common rooms are safer; the Carrows have yet to venture into one of those. The library, however, is fair game, and even if you’re doing something as innocent as writing an essay or searching for a book, they’ll find a way to torment you if they don’t like the look of you.

 

Tonight, it’s worth the risk. Draco is somewhere doing heaven-knows-what, leaving our dormitory rather lonely. It’s a common feeling as of late, but sometimes it helps to be lonely somewhere else.

 

A month has passed since I visited Malfoy Manor with Draco, but he’s been back every weekend since. He’s returned to school each time looking crestfallen and not really wanting to talk much. I don’t mind, really. If I’m being honest, I don’t want to hear about the things he’s seeing or hearing when he’s at home. I can imagine it well enough.

 

It continues to baffle me that, with the exception of the Carrows and Snape’s separation of the Houses, Hogwarts has remained relatively normal while the rest of the wizarding world is in chaos. More people go missing every day, fueling the terror and panic that Voldemort’s power grows with. Yet here, inside these walls, classes go on, essays are assigned, and end-of-year exams remain a distant, but inevitable reality.

 

It doesn’t seem fair.

 

Out of nowhere, footsteps emerge somewhere among the shelves, and my heart stops for a moment, assuming one of the Carrows decided to patrol the library. I relax upon hearing the sound of books being shuffled around. The Carrows wouldn’t bother with books, meaning either Madam Pince has returned or another student decided to brave the library tonight. I turn my attention back to my work, getting only two more sentences down when I hear the screech of a chair.

 

I raise my eyes slightly to take a peek, and almost drop my quill at the sight of Ernie. He’s selected a chair a few seats down from me on the opposite side of the table. I stare at him as he sets up his things, expecting him to look my way. Why else would he have sat so close to me when there are plenty of other vacant tables in the library?

 

Not that it matters. I came here to work, not to risk getting caught talking to someone outside of my House; even though I’m Head Girl and he’s a Prefect, I doubt we’d be let off with a slap on the wrist. I begin writing again, and for a stretch of several minutes, all I can hear are mine and Ernie’s quills scribbling away, along with the occasional turn of a page.

 

And then-

 

“Hey, Em.” He says this very softly, just loud enough to hear over the quills, and does not cease his work.

 

I pretend not to hear him. Even if I wanted to talk to him, it’s too dangerous. I have a cover to maintain, and though he’s a pureblood, he’s known to be an outspoken supporter of Harry. I’m sure the Carrows are looking for any excuse to teach him a lesson.

 

“Em?” he says again after a minute, a little louder this time. Again, I ignore him, making a point to turn the page of my Transfiguration book roughly.

 

“Emmy?”

 

“Don’t call me that,” I snap, looking up at him finally.

 

“I knew you could hear me,” he says. “What’s going on?”

 

“Transfiguration,” I say matter-of-factly.

 

“I mean with you,” Ernie clarifies. “What are you doing here?”

 

“ _Transfiguration_ ,” I repeat. I lift up the cover of my book to briefly show him before dropping it back down to the table.

 

“I don’t mean _here_ in the library. I mean Hogwarts.”

 

“Same reason we’re all here. It’s mandated.”

 

I glare at him, as if I’m daring him to challenge me, but I’m actually terrified of what he might say. It’s common knowledge the mandate was only for half-bloods and purebloods, and he knows I am neither. Will he question it? And if he does, who might overhear?

 

“Relax,” he murmurs after a moment. “Snape and the Carrows are all in their offices. We can talk.”

 

“I don’t _want_ to talk.”

 

It’s a partial lie. In truth, I’ve been starving to talk to any of my friends, but not Ernie. Not after last spring.

 

“Emmy-“

 

“I said don’t call me that!” I scold.

 

“Alright, sorry!” he says, putting down his quill. “I just want to know what’s going on. How are you here? _Why_ are you here? When I saw you on the platform, I couldn’t believe it. I’ve been worried about you. We all have. Me, Terry, Susan… all of us.”

 

I almost smile. I’ve been wondering if they wrote me off, figuring me to be a part of the opposition now. I wouldn’t blame them if they had, honestly, considering who I’m spending all my time with. It warms my heart to know they still care.

 

Yes, even Ernie.

 

“I have papers,” I say, “stating my status as a half-blood. I’m here because I have to be.”

 

“And what’s the deal with Malfoy?”

 

“The ‘deal?’”

 

“Em, c’mon. Do you really need me to spell it out for you? This isn’t you.”

 

“Excuse me?” I scoff. “Who are you to say what’s me and what isn’t?”

 

“I didn’t mean it that way!” he defends. “I just… Emmaleigh, come on. You’ve always hated everyone in Slytherin, and now you’re prancing around the castle with Draco Malfoy, of all people.”

 

“So?”

 

“So?” he asks incredulously. “Have you forgotten everything he’s done? How he’s tormented your friends over the years? Christ, Em, he almost killed Dumbledore!”

 

“But he didn’t!”

 

“The fact that he chickened out gives him a free pass, then, does it?”

 

“Leave it,” I warn. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“I know you’re bloody mad to be cozying up to Malfoy. I don’t care what your papers say, Em. We both know you’re-“

 

“Shut up!” I scold in a hushed whisper. “Just shut up! I don’t owe you anything, Ernie! Not a reason, not an explanation! What I’m doing shouldn’t even matter to you!”

 

“Why wouldn’t it? We’re friends, aren’t we?”

 

“I don’t know,” I shoot back, finally dropping my quill, too. “Friends write to each other over the summer, Ernie. I didn’t hear a word from you.”

 

“Yes, because the owls from you kept soaring through my window,” he mumbles sarcastically.

 

“What did you expect?” I ask, my voice quivering slightly. “ _You’re_ the one who broke up with _me_ , remember?”

 

That catches him off guard, evidenced by his several moments of silence.

 

“All things considered,” he says cautiously, “can you blame me?”

 

“No,” I answer. “I don’t.”

 

It’s the truth. As much as it hurt, I honestly don’t blame him for ending things. I would have considered him a fool if he hadn’t.

 

“None of it meant that I don’t care about you anymore, Em,” he said. “I still do. I just couldn’t-“

 

“I know.”

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t write. Especially given everything that’s been going on.”

 

I nod. “Me, too. Although it was probably for the best.”

 

He offers me a sad smile, which I make my best attempt at returning. As we sit in silence, I remember how kind he’s been to me over the years. He was one of the first people I met on the train during our first year and was one of the first to befriend me. He’s shown me nothing but care and friendship, even last year when our romance came to an uncomfortable end. I instantly feel bad for berating him, but I don’t apologize. After all, our first six years at Hogwarts don’t hold a candle to this one in terms of paranoia, uncertainty, and potential for peril; I’m not going to be sorry for keeping my guard up.

 

“I should go,” I say after a while. I gather up my belongings and start to stow them back in my bag.

 

“Em-“

 

“Ernie, I… we… this is too dangerous. I’m glad you’re okay. Just know that I am, too. Please, don’t worry about me. Tell the others I’m fine. Actually… no. Don’t. Don’t tell them anything. No one can know we talked, alright?”

 

 _Just know that I miss you_ , I add silently in my head. _All of you._

 

I don’t give him a chance to say anything else. I get up and begin walking toward the exit to the library, stopping dead in my tracks when he speaks again.

 

“It’s Harry, isn’t it?”

 

I slowly turn back toward him.

 

“What?”

 

“Harry,” he repeats so quietly that I can barely hear him. “He’s why you’ve come back. You’re helping him, aren’t you?”

 

I stare at him for a few moments, unable to speak. Surely, he can’t know what I’m up to. He was a member of D.A., but there’s no way Harry would have trusted Ernie with such a secret despite how well they usually got on. Before Ernie can say anything else, I’m briskly walking away from him, out of the library and into the dim, empty corridor.

 

Sure enough, he catches up to me.

 

“Em, wait!”

 

I turn to see him hurrying toward me, hastily shoving things back into his bag as he runs. I can hear his essay crinkling as he pushes it down.

 

“What do you want, Ernie?” I ask once he catches up to me, hoping he hears the irritability in my voice. I nervously look over both his shoulder and mine, but the corridor is empty.

 

“It’s true, isn’t it?” he asked. Though his voice is low, his excitement is evident. “I’ve suspected… a few of us have, actually… those of us in the D.A., it’s back together… but there _is_ something, isn’t there? Harry’s on a mission? Do you know what it is?”

 

“Ernie-“

 

“Because if there is, and if there’s something we can do, you know we’ll do it.”

 

“Ernie, stop,” I urge. “There’s… there’s nothing. I’m sorry. I- I don’t know where you got the idea, but… no. There’s no mission. I don’t know anything about where Harry’s gone.”

 

“I don’t believe you,” he whispers. “I don’t care what those papers of yours say. You know what you’re really up against here, and you wouldn’t have come back just for kicks. You’re here for a reason, Em. You just have to be.”

 

I’ve always admired Ernie’s persistence. He’s consistently been known for sticking to what he says and fighting for what he believes to be right, sometimes to a fault. Such pure confidence in the face of adversity is a rare quality, but a respectable one. Tonight is the first time I’m finding it incredibly annoying, not to mention dangerous.

 

And if there really _are_ whispers among the D.A. members about what I’m up to, how long is it before someone says something at the wrong time, within earshot of the wrong person?

 

I know perfectly well the only way to get Ernie to back down is to prove him wrong, and I can’t do that, because he _isn’t_ wrong. I can’t lie, either, as he’s always seen right through me. If I were to just walk away, I know he’d follow me and keep insisting I share something with him. So, I opt for silence, and maybe he’ll get the message: _Yes, there’s a mission. No, I can’t talk about it._

 

“Em,” he whispers after a while. “I… you don’t need to tell me. Coming back to school, this thing with Malfoy, whatever it all means… I trust you.”

 

“I don’t need your approval, Ernie-“

 

“I know. But, listen… _if_ there is something to be done, something that can end all of this… then I want to help. Just… just let me know, okay? If there’s something I can do, _anything_ , just get word to me somehow, and I’ll do whatever I can.”

 

“There you are!”

 

I should have expected this. To my horror, I look over Ernie’s shoulder to see Draco striding toward the pair of us. He doesn’t look angry, exactly, but his expression indicates that he has questions. In haste, I offer Ernie a quick, barely-there nod. There’s hardly a chance I’ll come to him for help, but if he feels in the loop, maybe he won’t come around inquiring again.

 

“I was wondering where you’d run off to,” he says nonchalantly. Once he reaches me, he slips an arm around my shoulder and kisses me on the cheek. He nods toward Ernie. “Is he bothering you?”

 

Before I can respond, Ernie cuts in.

 

“Was just saying hello,” he says. “Is that problem?”

 

“It is, actually, given the rules set forth by the headmaster.”

 

“I’m a Prefect,” Ernie shoots back. “Seeing as she’s Head-Girl-“

 

“Prefect or not, you’re in Hufflepuff. You have your own house to say hello to. Ready to head back, or were you on your way to the library?” Draco asks me.

 

I shake my head. “No, we can go.”

 

He nods, then turns to Ernie once again. “Mind your place, Macmillan.”

 

Once we’ve rounded a couple of corners, the lecture starts.

 

“Are you _mad_?!” he asks in an intense whisper.

 

“It was nothing, honestly! He really was just saying hello.”

 

“Like that matters. You’re lucky it was me. Can you imagine the trouble it’d have caused if someone else came down the corridor?”

 

“Yes, actually, I can,” I shoot back. “In case you didn’t notice, I was trying to get away from him.”

 

“What did he want, then?”

 

“Like I said, he-“

 

“Bullshit. He wanted something,” Draco declares. “Or… he wanted to _ask_ something. Was that it? Is he on to us?”

 

By this point, we have reached Robin the Ruthless, and Draco shoves the tip of his wand into the statue’s hand as he anxiety awaits my answer.

 

“He asked how I was doing. Does that count as being ‘onto us?’”

 

“Joke all you want, Ross, but I’m not too keen on having our cover blown thanks to some nosy Hufflepuff.”

 

“He wasn’t being _nosy_ ,” I argue as we walk into our dormitory, though it’s not entirely true. “He and I were friends. And… well, he knows what I really am. He was concerned, that’s all.”

 

“Neither of you said it out loud, did you?” he asks quickly. “That you’re Muggleborn?”

 

“What? No!” I say incredulously. “I’m not stupid, Malfoy! And neither is he. There was no one in sight; believe me, I checked. This honestly isn’t a big deal.”

 

“Isn’t a big deal?” he scoffs. “May I remind you – and _not_ for the first time – that this isn’t only about you.”

 

“I know-“

 

“And if there’s even a _whisper_ that there’s possibly something going on with you or me, that won’t bode well for us. Even if his intentions are good, Ross, he could let something slip.”

 

“Listen, I’m not going to talk to him again, alright?” I say, exasperated. “I tried to ignore him. He kept asking how I was, and I said I was fine. Then he asked about Harry-“

 

“WHAT?!”

 

“-and that’s when you showed up. I didn’t tell him anything! Relax!”

 

“Relax?! Why the hell would he be asking about Potter? How much does he know? What did you say? Does he know what you’re up to?”

 

At this point, his face has somehow gone paler than it ever has been, and his eyes are wide.

 

“I didn’t say anything!” I insist. “As for why he’s asking… well, Christ, Malfoy, you can’t expect people not to wonder. Ernie and I have been friends since first year. He knows I’m Muggleborn. We were in the D.A. together and he knows I got on well with Harry. You can’t blame him for suspecting.”

 

“But you didn’t say anything, right?”

 

I shake my head. “All I said was I have papers stating I’m half-blood, which is true.”

 

“And they look authentic?”

 

Rather than answer him, I retreat to my room and dig the papers out of my trunk. I hand them to him upon my return, and he eyes them curiously. He squints as he tilts them slightly, no doubt looking for the Ministry logo that I know he’ll see.

 

“These are good,” he comments. “Very good, actually.”

 

“ _Obviously_ they’re good. How do you think I got past the platform and into school? Did you think I avoided inspection somehow?”

 

“Did you do them yourself?”

 

I shake my head. “Fred and George.”

 

“Ah. Never liked them, for obvious reasons, but I could never deny their talent.” He hands them back to me. “Look, Ross, just be more careful of who you talk to.”

 

I roll my eyes. “As I already said, I’m not planning to talk to him again, nor anyone else, for that matter. Not until this is all over, anyway.”

 

“Right… good.”

 

“Where were you, by the way?” I query. “You were gone a while.”

 

“Home.”

 

“Oh.” I don’t bother asking what happened while he was there. I never ask. He never tells. We have the silent, mutual understanding that what goes on at Malfoy Manor is never to be discussed.

 

“We can go back tomorrow. Both of us, I mean.”

 

“Great.” It comes out more sarcastic than I intend.

 

“It actually is,” he continues. “My parents won’t be home.”

 

That piques my interest. “Really?”

 

“For a couple hours, anyway,” he says. “They’re going to be visiting a friend of my mother’s. I wasn’t planning on going back tomorrow, but once they told me that, I figured-“

 

“We can search,” I finish for him. “We can search for some answers.”

 

I draw in a deep breath, unable to ignore the feeling of my excited heart picking up its pace. This is what we’ve been waiting for: a chance to go into those closed-door rooms at Malfoy Manor and see what we can find. Tomorrow, we’ll have that uninterrupted chance. We could find clues or, if we’re lucky, an actual Horcrux.

 

The rational side of my brain tries to remind me not to get my hopes too high. Malfoy Manor has been raided several times since Lucius’s arrest, and there’s no telling what was taken by the Ministry. And what are the odds Voldemort entrusted a second Horcrux to the Malfoys? I’d wager it’s highly unlikely.

 

Still, I go to bed optimistic and oddly looking forward to returning to Malfoy Manor. In fact, I’m so excited that I can hardly sleep.

 

* * *

 

 “So, they’ll still be there once we arrive,” Draco reminds me. “Run through the plan again?”

 

“We say hello, then retreat to the library. We’ll work on homework until they leave.”

 

“And?”

 

“And we’ll be working on homework once they return. We’ll only look around for an hour, just to be safe.”

 

“Alright,” he says, sliding his schoolbag over his shoulder. “Good.”

 

“It’s going to be fine, Malfoy.”

 

“Yeah… c’mon, let’s get going.”

 

Just as we did a month ago, we walk in silence to Hogsmeade so we can Apparate. I can sense Draco’s tension as we walk. I know how every move we make is a risk, especially when it involves Malfoy Manor, but despite the gravity of the situation, I can’t help but find this juxtaposition amusing. The last time we did this, it was Draco reassuring me that all would be well. It feels unnatural for it to be the other way around, but I suppose I should stop finding these instances surprising. I’m not even sure if _normal_ is a real thing anymore.

 

“It’s going to be fine,” I repeat.

 

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbles. “You keep saying that.”

 

“If you’re worried about getting caught looking around-“

 

“I’m not.”

 

“Alright, then, what is it?” I ask. “Are you worried we won’t find anything? Because we knew going into this that was a possibility. If we come up short, we start searching Hogwarts, that’s all.”

 

Draco shakes his head. “Quite the opposite.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Ross… I’m worried about what we _will_ find.”

 

He doesn’t give me the chance to ask him to elaborate, as we’ve crossed the boundary and he’s already grabbing my hand. Within seconds, we’ve Apparated, and we’re at Malfoy Manor once again. A dense fog surrounds the house, and we can barely see three feet in front of us as we approach the front door. I decide it’s fitting, really, given what we’re planning to do.

 

We say hello to Narcissa in the sitting room before we proceed down the corridor. Soon, I’m able to hear voices coming from the dining room. As we pass, I see Lucius sitting at the table engaged in a deep discussion with another man. Standing away from them at the side of the room is a woman with a baby cradled against her chest. Draco steps in for a moment to talk to his father. Unsure of what to do, I stand awkwardly in the doorway, and my eyes meet those of the other woman for a moment. She, too, seems to be avoiding the discussion at the table. She stares at me for a couple of moments before offering me a small nod without a smile, though the gesture isn’t as cold as I would’ve expected.

 

No more than thirty seconds pass before Draco is ushering me out of the room and rushing the both of us away. We arrive in the Malfoys’ library a minute later, and we sit across from each other at an ornate table.

 

“Who were those people?” I ask as we begin to take things out of our bags. “In the dining room?”

 

“The Rowles,” he answers, already beginning to flip through his Charms book.

 

“Any reason you didn’t want to stay and chat a little longer?”

 

“There are several,” he answers flatly, “one being that I don’t want to be involved in any of that.”

 

“I know that, but aren’t you curious about what they were talking about? It could be useful.”

 

“They’re always discussing the same things, Ross. The latest captives to torment. Rumors about where Potter might be. What the Dark Lord’s latest plans are. Nothing of use to us.”

 

“Nothing of use to us?” I repeat. “Malfoy, you don’t think it’d be useful to know what You-Know-Who’s up to?”

 

“Not particularly, no. You said it yourself that the only way we can take him down is to get rid of these Horcrux things.”

 

“Yes, but-“

 

“Just leave it,” Draco says firmly. “I have no interest in speaking to the Rowles, alright?”

 

“Why?”

 

“Reasons.”

 

With that, he dips his quill into an inkwell and begins scratching away something for his essay. I don’t question him further. He’ll tell me eventually, or maybe he won’t. It really doesn’t matter.

 

About twenty minutes of silence pass before we hear doors closing downstairs. Draco wastes no time getting up and peering around a nearby curtain.

 

“They’re leaving,” he declares.

 

“The Rowles?”

 

“My parents, too.” After a few seconds, I can hear the distinct popping sound of Apparition in the distance. “Alright, let’s go.”

 

“You sure we won’t get interrupted?” I ask as Draco leads me out of the library and into the corridor. “I mean, the guards are still out at the gate.”

 

“They’re under strict orders to stay put, unless there’s an emergency and they need to enter the house. And believe me, if that happens, being in a room we aren’t supposed to be in will be the least of our concerns.”

 

We reach the closed door, but Draco makes no move to unlock it. He stares at the doorknob instead.

 

“Malfoy?”

 

“Sorry. Just…”

 

“What did you mean earlier,” I ask, “when you said you were afraid of what we might find?”

 

“I thought that was obvious,” he states bluntly. “It’s no secret that my parents aren’t good people. Who knows what sort of stuff they’ve been up to over the years? I’m not sure I want to find out. Maybe not knowing is better.”

 

Without another word, he magics the door open. It’s a cluttered room, filled with random odds and ends, which is discouraging. It’s not as if I expected something to jump out at me, but I have absolutely no idea where to begin.

 

“Well, dig in, Ross,” Malfoy mutters with a shrug.

 

He veers right toward the shelves, so I head left to a table covered in an assortment of things one would expect to find in an antique shop. I lamely investigate objects, assuming that if something were a Horcrux, it would feel _off_ : too heavy, perhaps, or having an unnatural vibration.

 

We do this in silence for the better part of the next half hour. I occasionally hear Draco mutter a revealing spell, followed shortly by a cuss, leading me to assume he keeps coming up short. Eventually he speaks to me, and it’s not what I expect to hear.

 

“So, what’s the deal with you and Macmillan?” he asks.

 

I glance up from the purple vase I’m slowly overturning in my hands. “Sorry?”

 

“You and Macmillan. You two were together.”

 

“Yes,” I say curtly. I put the vase back down and pick up a hand mirror.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Excuse me? How is that any of your business?”

 

“I’m just wondering,” he answers with a shrug. “You were together for a while.”

 

I raise an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”

 

“I’m not stupid, Ross, nor am I blind,” he retorts. “Friends or not, we’ve been in the same house for six years. It’s hard not to notice things.”

 

“I guess,” I agree, but don’t elaborate.

 

I expect Draco to push the topic, but he goes right back to searching. He pulls a book from one of the shelves and absentmindedly begins flipping through it. I have half a mind to tell him he’s likely wasting his time looking through a book, but instead I allow myself to ponder why he would ask such a question. What does it matter to Draco Malfoy why Ernie Macmillan and I broke up? Is he just making conversation, or is he actually curious?

 

“He told me he loved me,” I admit after a couple of minutes.

 

Draco looks up from the book. “Sorry?”

 

“Ernie. He said he loved me. That’s why we broke up.”

 

“That’s an odd reason to break up.”

 

“I didn’t say it back.”

 

“Oh,” Draco says, inhaling deeply as he closes the book. He returns it to the shelf and grabs another one. “I can see why that would cause trouble.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Any reason you didn’t reciprocate?”

 

“Because it would have been a lie.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I don’t know,” I answer with a shrug, placing the hand mirror back on the table. “What does that even mean? I mean, I loved Ernie as a friend… maybe I still do, in a way… but like _that_? When he said it, I know he meant something that I couldn’t say back, and when I didn’t… well, I’m sure you can figure it out.”

 

“Mm,” he mumbles.

 

“Your turn.”

 

“Sorry?” he asks, raising an eyebrow as he turns a page in the book.

 

“Why don’t you want to talk to the Rowles?”

 

“Can’t let it go, can you?”

 

I shrug. “Fair is fair.”

 

He eyes me for a moment before glancing back down.

 

“I tortured him,” he says bluntly. “Thorfinn. The husband.”

 

“What?” I ask. “When? What for?”

 

“A few months back. The Dark Lord ordered me to.”

 

Draco doesn’t elaborate, but I can see the guilt etched on his face. Though he’s still looking at the pages in front of him, I can tell he isn’t truly reading it anymore. His eyes are glazed over, as if he’s lost in a trance. There’s shame there, and possibly remorse.

 

“What for? What did he do, I mean,” I clarify, “to make You-Know-Who want him tortured?”

 

“He made an error. But does it matter?” Draco asks. “Who cares why? The fact is that I did it.”

 

“But if he ordered you to, then you didn’t have a choice.”

 

“He ordered me to kill Dumbledore, too, and I didn’t do that, did I?” he argues. “I absolutely had a choice.”

 

“Yes, but he wasn’t there when you didn’t kill Dumbledore. I’m assuming he was there when you tortured Rowle? If he was, that changes things a bit.”

 

“So? I tortured a… well, I won’t say he’s innocent. He’s done some foul things. But the mistake he made didn’t warrant the Cruciatus.”

 

“What did he do?” I ask again.

 

“He let Potter, Weasley, and Granger get away,” Draco says, roughly closing the book and pulling a small box from the shelf. “The night the Ministry fell, those three took off. Rowle and Dolohov tracked them, but they got away. So naturally, they both got punished. And I did it. To Rowle, anyway. That makes me just like the rest of them.”

 

“No, you’re not. Malfoy-”

 

But he isn’t listening anymore. Draco has opened the box and is now staring into it. He lifts out a small pile of what looks like photographs, mouth slightly agape. He flips through a couple of them before I ask.

 

“What is it?” I figure it’s just pictures of his family, so I return my attention to the table, aiming to select another object to investigate. When he goes a few moments without answering me, I eye him curiously. “Malfoy? What is it?”

 

“You’re sure,” he says slowly, “that you’re Muggleborn, right?”

 

“Of course. Why?”

 

“It’s… it’s _you_.”

 

“What?” I scoff. “You’re barking.”

 

“Or someone that looks an awful lot like you. It’s uncanny. Come here, look.”

 

I walk over to the other side of the room, and Malfoy offers one of the pictures to me. It shocks me to the core; he wasn’t kidding. In the picture is a woman with my eyes, my nose, my mouth, only with blonde hair instead of brown. She’s sitting on a bench reading, a large book bag wedged between her and the armrest.

 

“That’s not me,” I whisper. “It’s my mum.”

 

Without asking, I snatch the rest of the pile from Malfoy and flip through them. There’s only about ten, but she’s in every one, always with the same book bag, leading me to assume they were taken when she was at university. She’s alone in most of them, though sometimes she’s accompanied by and laughing with another young woman – a friend, presumably, or maybe just a random classmate.

 

I’ve seen pictures of my mother, of course, but there’s something weird about these ones. They’re clearly candids, as if someone had been watching or following her. But for what? And how did they end up in Malfoy Manor, of all places? What were they doing here?

 

“She was very beautiful,” Draco says after a moment.

 

He’s probably just being cordial and may not even mean it, but I blush at this; after all, he said moments ago that he thought the woman in the photograph was me. I can’t help wondering if he thinks I’m pretty, too.

 

It bothers me that it matters.

 

“Maybe she actually was a witch?” Draco insists. “I know you said-”

 

“She wasn’t,” I affirm.

 

“Ross, c’mon. Can’t you at least entertain the possibility? The fact that photos are here is an oddity in itself, but one thing’s for sure: they wouldn’t be here if she was a Muggle.”

 

“She _was_ a Muggle, Malfoy. Trust me. My aunt would have told me otherwise.”

 

“Maybe she forgot?”

 

“How do you forget something like that? And even if she had, don’t you think she would have remembered once I got my Hogwarts letter? I don’t know why these are here, but-”

 

“Shit,” Draco interrupts. I hear it, too: the popping sound of Apparition outside. Draco goes to the window and pulls back the curtain slightly to take a peek. “They’re back already. Hurry.”

 

He grabs the rest of the photos and begins to shove them back into the box.

 

“Wait,” I say. “Could I just take one? They won’t notice it’s missing, right?”

 

“Whatever. Let’s go!” he urges.

 

I take the top one from the pile – the one of my mother reading – and fold it down the middle before shoving it deep into my pocket. Draco locks the door behind us as we leave, and before I know it, we’re back in the Malfoy family library, working on our homework as if nothing happened. I can hear the distant creak of the front door opening downstairs.

 

“I’m sorry,” Draco says quietly, not looking up from his essay, “that it was all for nothing.”

 

“I’d hardly call it all for nothing,” I whisper back. “We may not have found a Horcrux, but we found _something_. Photos of my mother stored in your family manor? That’s not nothing.”

 

“What do you think it means, then?”

 

I’ve been asking myself the same question over and over in the short time that’s passed since Draco showed me those photos, but I can’t muster anything that makes a shred of sense. All I know for sure is that it has to mean something, and I won’t feel settled until I know what that is. I’m positive my mother was a Muggle, but it appears she was connected to the magical world somehow. Was the other woman in the pictures a witch, perhaps? Maybe she was doing some work for a witch or wizard without knowing the magical aspect of it?

 

 _But that doesn’t explain why there’s a pile of candid photos of her in Malfoy Manor_ , I remind myself.

 

“I don’t know,” I answer him honestly, “but I’m going to find out.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	6. A Most Frigid Christmas

_**Chapter Six – A Most Frigid Christmas**_

_**~Draco~** _

  


I wake to the sound of freezing rain pattering against my window one mid-December morning. Squinting, I glance at the clock on my bedside table, and I grimace when I see it’s not even seven yet. It’s Saturday. I shouldn’t be up this early on a bloody Saturday.  
  


I suppose its for the best. With Head-Boy duties and spending every damn weekend at home, I’ve fallen grossly behind on homework, and term is ending next week. Of course, I’m sure Professor Snape would gladly force the teachers to grant me extensions, but the last thing I want is to owe him a favor. I’m determined to get it all done on time so I can at least make an attempt, however futile, to enjoy the Christmas holidays.

  


After showering and getting dressed, I step out into mine and Emmaleigh’s shared common room, intent on scarfing down a quick breakfast so I can bury myself in my room and get started on that Transfiguration essay I’ve been neglecting. There’s a small spread of toast, fried eggs, and sausages already waiting on the table. I make myself a plate and pour a cup of tea, opting not pour one for Emmaleigh on the off-chance she decides to sleep in.

  


Beside the breakfast tray, there is a very modest pile of mail. Topping it is the Daily Prophet. Potter’s face is plastered to it, along with the headline:

_**Potter In Hyde Park? Possible Sighting of Undesirable #1 in London** _

  


I roll my eyes, not bothering to pick up the paper to read the likely pathetic excuse for an article. There’s at least one of these a week, and they’re always the same: some wizard claims to have seen Potter in their neighborhood, but there’s never any evidence aside from the person’s word. No photographs, no clues left behind, nothing. I don’t blame the people who claim to have seen something; hefty reward aside, nothing could buy you and your family protection like finding Harry Potter.

  


Wherever he is, he’s doing a hell of a good job keeping himself hidden. If there ever were to be an actual sighting of Potter, chances are I’d hear about it rather quickly. Instead, I’ve heard nothing but grumblings and frustration about how he seems to have vanished without a trace. There’s even speculation he’s left the country.

  


Admittedly, I’m not of fan of Potter, but the fact that he’s making things difficult for the Cause does tickle me a bit.

  


“Morning.” Emmaleigh’s awake.

  


I nod to her. “’Morning.”

  


“You’re up early,” she comments as she makes a cup of tea.

  


“Lots to do today. Essays and things.”

  


“Me, too.” She nods toward the Prophet. “May I?”

  


“By all means.”

  


She grabs the paper, snorting when she sees the headline.

  


“Shall we place a wager on where they find him next? My vote is in a tree in Newcastle.”

  


I grin, but don’t offer any suggestions. Instead, I wait patiently. I know where she’s flipping to.

  


“Ten,” she declares. “No, wait – nine.”

  


“Anyone we know?” I ask.

  


“I don’t think so. Looks like they got a family, though. Five with the surname Dearborn.”

  


I don’t say anything, because really, what is there to say? This is par for the course now, this daily reading of the names of the murdered. The awful truth is at this point, it’s more of a comfort than anything else. A day in which you can read the list without recognizing a name is another day you can breathe easier.

  


I finish my breakfast quickly and grab the rest of the mail as Emmaleigh makes her plate. There’s two envelopes, both addressed to me in my mother’s neat and tiny handwriting. One, however, makes eyes widen.

  


“Holy shit, it worked,” I mumbled. “Ross, it’s here.”

  


I show her the envelope that, in the bottom right corner, has a tiny black circle on it. She drops her fork and reaches for it.

  


“Oh! Finally!” she exclaims, tearing it open. “That took forever!”

  


“It’s only been a couple of weeks.”

  


“Exactly. Forever. Now, hush.”

  


Emmaleigh wrote to her aunt a couple weeks ago to ask some questions about her mother, and it would have been too risky for her to receive the response. There’s no telling whose mail, and how much, the Carrows are screening. However, my mother writes to me regularly, and we figured if anyone’s letters were going to get through without scrutiny, mine would. So, when Emmaleigh wrote to her aunt, we sent along an envelope with my name on it and instructed her to send her response in it.

  


“Well?” I ask impatiently. “What does it say?”

  


She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyebrows are crinkled as she finishes reading, a small frown on her lips.

  


“Not what I was hoping for,” she finally says after a couple of minutes, handing it over. “Here.” I grab the letter from her outstretched hand and begin to read.

  


_Dear Emmaleigh,_

  


_I can’t tell you how wonderful it was to hear from you! I miss your regular letters, but I understand. Being your last year of school, you must be up to your ears in work!_

  


_Everything is well here. Jude was Student of the Month in his class, and Edgar got a part in the school play! They’re doing Alice in Wonderland and he’s going to be the Cheshire Cat. He’s very excited! The play is in April, so you may be able to see it if it coincides with your Easter holidays._

  


I skim the next few paragraphs of the letter. Goodness, her aunt is wordy. It’s a stark contrast to my mother’s letters, which are typically very short and to the point. Finally, I get to something relevant.

  


_Regarding the questions about your mother, I wish I could be of more help. We were never close, especially when she was at university. My suggestion is to get in touch with Angela Burke. She was your mother’s best friend growing up and if I’m remembering correctly, they attended university together. I’ve written her address on the back of this letter. (Hopefully it’s the same. We used to exchange Christmas cards but lost touch a few years back.) Though, perhaps it would be best to wait until you’re home to try to write to her; I’m not sure how responsive she’d be to an owl. But, she’s your best bet at getting the answers you’re looking for._

  


_Everyone here misses you terribly. It’ll be great to see you soon. We love you!_

  


_Love,_

_Aunt Maggie_

  


“Well, that’s that,” I say, placing the letter on the table. “Probably best to forget about those pictures for a while. Like your aunt said, you can’t send an owl to a Muggle’s home, unless you have a death wish. What?”

  


“I could just visit her,” Emmaleigh says with a shrug. “Angela, I mean. I’ll bet she’s the one in the photo with my mum.”

  


I grab the letter again and turn it over, scanning the address her aunt scribbled on the back.

  


“If your aunt is correct, this woman lives in Suffolk. That isn’t exactly in the neighborhood.”

  


“Here, no. But, it’s not far away from my house. I could probably slip away for a couple of hours when I’m home.”

  


“Yes, but that’s what I’m saying. I don’t mean forget about the photos forever, just for now. It’s going to be a while until you can figure anything out about them.”

  


“Have you forgotten the Christmas holidays start next week?”

  


“What’s that got to do with anything?”

  


She looks at me like I have three heads. “Um… because I’ll be home soon. Surely I can find a couple hours between Christmas and New Year’s when I can head to Angela’s house. My aunt probably wouldn’t mind if I borrowed her car; I got my driver’s license over the summer. I mean, I could Apparate, but seeing as I don’t know exactly where I’d be going... What’s the matter?”

  


I can feel myself frowning, though it’s hardly intentional. My first instinct is to make a snarky comment about how she should have known better, but then again, maybe we should have talked about it. I assumed she would have known.

  


“Malfoy, what’s the matter?” she repeats.

  


“I just thought it was obvious,” I mutter.

  


She raises her eyebrows and gestures for me to continue, but says nothing.

  


“I just figured… well, given everything that’s going on, I figured you’d know we’re expected at the Manor for Christmas.”

  


Her face falls, and despite my relative indifference toward her, I do feel a slight pang of guilt.

  


“No,” she says adamantly. “No. I’m not going.”

  


“Ross-”

  


“I’m not spending Christmas at the bloody Manor.”

  


“Look, it’s not my idea of a holiday either, but-”

  


“Malfoy, come on,” she argues. “I’ve been there a couple of times already. Isn’t that enough?”

  


“We’re trying to protect ourselves and not raise suspicion. If you don’t show up with me at Christmas, how do you think that’s going to look?”

  


“I don’t think it’ll look like anything! Perhaps it escaped your memory, but I have family, too. Family I haven’t seen since September, might I add. Would it really be that surprising to your mum and dad if I spent time with my own family for the holidays?”

  


“Kind of, yes! Be realistic, Ross. You’re pretending to be a half-blood who sympathizes with the Cause. Would a person like that want to visit their family that’s made up entirely of Muggles?”

  


“Oh, right, that’s it. My family doesn’t count because they’re _filthy Muggles_ , right?”

  


“Christ, not this shit again!” I snap. “Listen, I know you’re pissed, but for god’s sake, this isn’t my fault. Believe me, nothing would make my Christmas like having a break from you, but we made a plan and we have to stick to it. Unless you want a target on your back, you have to come to the Manor. I’m sure your family would be okay with you missing Christmas if it means you aren’t dead.”

  


“This is bullshit,” Emmaleigh mutters angrily. She glares at me as she snatches her aunt’s letter from the table. In a flash, she’s out of her seat and storming off to her room. I barely have time to scowl before she’s back again, this time with her book bag over her shoulder.

  


“I’ll be in the library,” she huffs. And with that, she stomps out of our dormitory.

  


I stare at the door incredulously. What exactly is she so upset about? I mean, I get where she’s coming from, sort of. Family, the holidays, presents… I suppose in any family that’s not mine, a visit to that is worth looking forward to.

  


But in times like these, is going home for a couple weeks really all that important? Is it worth messing up the plan we devised – a plan that has, as far as we know, thwarted any suspicion about our intentions and loyalties for the last four months? And I didn’t think things were going horribly enough for her to balk at the idea of going to the Manor for the holidays. I know we aren’t friends, but we’ve at least been able to tolerate one another, even to the point of being civil. Or so I thought.

  


Shaking my head, I grab the other, unopened letter that I know is from my mother. True to character, her letter is short and succinct. However, I immediately wish I hadn’t read it, at least not now.

  


Happy Christmas, Draco, and Happy fucking New Year.

 

* * *

 

 

Emmaleigh still hasn’t returned when I leave the dormitory later that afternoon. It’s fine with me, really. She gets the dormitory to herself every time I go home; it was only fair for me to get some solitude for a change.

  


Honestly, I didn’t like it as much as I thought I would, but at least I got some work done.

  


Completed essay in hand, I walk down the corridor to Professor McGonagall’s office. Seeing as it’s Saturday, she likely won’t be in there, so I can just slip it beneath her door and be on my way. I realize too late, however, that the door to her office is, in fact, ajar. The second I notice the light pouring through, I step back, hoping she didn’t see me. The last thing I want to do it make small talk.

  


“Who is it?” I hear her say. Damn it. No sense in trying to outsmart her. Reluctantly, I step into the office.

  


“Good evening, Professor.”

  


“Mr. Malfoy,” she says, genuine surprise in her voice. She places her quill back into its stand and peers at me over the rims of her glasses. “What can I do for you?”

  


“Sorry to bother you on the weekend, Professor. I just have this. My essay,” I say, lazily holding up the rolled piece of parchment before placing it on her desk. “Sorry it’s late.”

  


“Well,” she says, “better late than never, I suppose. Thank you.”

  


I nod. “Right, then. Have a good night.” I start to leave, and am just about out the door when she speaks again.

  


“Mr. Malfoy?”

  


I turn around, but say nothing. She is silent for a moment, too. She eyes me curiously, and for split second, I think of using Occlumency; I wouldn’t put it past Professor McGonagall to be a Legilimens, and a skilled one at that. However, beyond her usual sternness, there’s a subtle, hardly-there understanding in her eyes that makes me think twice. It’s probably the most benevolent I’ve ever seen her.

  


“Happy Christmas,” she says. This takes me aback. I expected a lecture for my tardiness, or perhaps silent indifference, but not a pleasantry.

  


“Thanks. You too, Professor.”

  


As I head back to the dormitory, I try to make sense of Professor McGonagall’s cordiality. By all accounts, she should hate me. She knows I’ve taken the Mark, that I nearly killed Dumbledore on the Dark Lord’s orders. So why the kindness? In the absence of Snape and the Carrows, she could have chastised me, cursed me, handed me over to the Order for information on the Cause. But instead, she wished me a pleasant holiday and seemed… concerned? Is concern what that was?

  


Maybe it doesn’t take Legilimency to see through my facade, and I truthfully can’t decide if that’s good or bad.

  


I pass the library, and I’m surprised to find it pitch black. It’s dinnertime, so I’m sure everyone’s in the Great Hall, but I figured Emmaleigh would be in there; I don’t think she’s gone to the Great Hall for dinner once this year. Somehow, I know she hasn’t gone back to our dormitory, as the manner in which she’d left seemed to promise she wouldn’t be back until very late.

  


Where, then, has she run off to? I know she had essays to finish, but more than anything, she was intent on finding answers about her mother. Knowing that she wasn’t going to get them over Christmas like she hoped likely prompted her research… which means the library. Yet clearly, she isn’t here. Perhaps she needed to clear her head and took a walk?

  


Then it clicks. The Astronomy Tower. Hadn’t she said that she, too, likes to venture up there in search of tranquility?

  


Without thinking, I spin on my heel and head for the Astronomy Tower. I’m not really sure why. I don’t have anything to say to her. Perhaps I’m curious as to whether she found anything. Maybe I just want to know that I’m right about her being there.

  


And she is. When I reach the top of the winding staircase and climb over the threshold, I see Emmaleigh sitting in the exact same spot the two of us had hatched our plan back in September. However, the sight is not what I imagined it would be. Her bag is there, along with a modest pile of books, one of which is opened in her lap. There’s also a tote beside her, and she’s eating a sandwich as she stares down at the pages before her.

  


“Hey,” I say. I expect her to ignore me at the very least, hex me at the worst, but she just glances my way and offers a small nod.

  


“Hey,” she replies, and nothing more.

  


I saunter over to where she sits, plopping down beside her. She doesn’t object, but at the same time, she doesn’t do much to acknowledge my presence. She just keeps reading, occasionally takes a bite of her sandwich, and sips from the goblet of pumpkin juice she somehow acquired.

  


“Where’d you get food from?” I ask after a minute. I’m genuinely curious. We aren’t allowed to take food from the Great Hall, and they wouldn’t be serving sandwiches for dinner, anyway.

  


“The kitchens,” she answers nonchalantly. “Where else?”

  


“Really? How? Students aren’t allowed.”

  


“Sure they are, if they know how to get in.”

  


“Care to enlighten me?”

  


“Not really.”

  


I frown at her, and she relents when she glances sideways at me.

  


“Downstairs, there’s a painting of a bowl of fruit,” she explains. “You have to tickle the pear to get in.”

  


“And the house-elves just let you take food?”

  


“Of course not. You have to ask. They’ll give you anything you want if you’re nice.”

  


“How’d you figure out how to get in?” I ask. I must admit it bothers me that after seven years at Hogwarts, I never knew students could get into the kitchens. I think back to all the times I abruptly got hungry in the evening and only had sweets from Honeydukes; it would have been nice to get a more substantial snack. “Did you just start tickling paintings at random?”

  


“Ernie showed me,” she answers. “The kitchens are right near Hufflepuff House. They’re in there all the time.”

  


“Oh. No wonder the Hufflepuffs are always so happy.”

  


“Yeah… they were.”

  


It’s a fair statement. No one in this damn castle is happy anymore, save for the select few who enjoy torture.

  


“Have one,” Emmaleigh says, pushing the tote toward me. “You must be starving. There’s pumpkin juice in there, too.”

  


“Oh… no, but thanks. There will be dinner back in the dormitory.”

  


“Really, it’s fine. They always give me too much. Besides, any dinner they sent up for us will be cold by now.”

  


She has a point. I murmur a quick thanks before reaching into the tote. As I take a bite, I realize just how hungry I am; this morning’s breakfast seems like it was years ago. We eat in silence for the next few minutes, and it isn’t as awkward as it should be. We’re used to this by now, this state of being together without talking. It’s almost routine, and one we’ve somehow made harmonious.

  


“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” she says after a few minutes. “Earlier, I mean. I wasn’t mad at you. Everything else, yes, but not you.”

  


“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry, too. But, it’s for the best.”

  


“What is?”

  


“Going to the Manor. We can’t back out now. It’s the only thing that’ll keep them from… what?” Emmaleigh’s staring at me, mouth slightly agape. “Do you still not want to go?”

  


“No, of course not. I mean, I’ll _go_ , but… that’s not the point.”

  


“What is it, then?”

  


She shakes her head. “Nothing. You don’t get it.”

  


“What don’t I get?”

  


“This was never about the Manor, Malfoy. I mean, it is, kind of, but… never mind. It isn’t important.”

  


“Obviously, it is, Ross. What’s going on?”

  


She’s silent for several moments. Again, she stares ahead, seemingly in a trance.

  


“You don’t know what it’s like,” she murmurs, “to not have an identity.”

  


I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean? You’re-”

  


“Yes, I know. I have a name and all that. But… it’s more than that. You’ve always belonged somewhere, Malfoy.”

  


“I thought I did,” I answer. “But if I did, I wouldn’t be concealing my true loyalties from everyone but you, would I?”

  


“That’s not what I mean,” she argues. “You may not like it or agree with it, but at least you know where you come from. You have a family, an identity. I don’t have that. I mean, I have my aunt and uncle and cousins, obviously, but that doesn’t tell me who I am. I know my mother’s name and what she looked like, but I don’t really know _who_ she was, you know? And my dad… well, your guess is as good as mine. I just want to know where I come from.”

  


“But does it matter?” I ask. “You’re your own person. Isn’t that enough?”

  


“You wouldn’t be asking that if you were in my shoes,” she answers. “Have you ever had to wonder why you’re in Slytherin?” I shake my head, and she nods. “Exactly. I have. You were welcomed into this House with open arms. Me? I was chastised and mocked. I never felt like I belonged here. It’s no secret that while you’re at Hogwarts, your House plays a big part in who you are and how people perceive you. You can’t imagine what it’s like to be the only person in this damn school who, after all this time, still doesn’t belong where she was told to go. The Sorting Hat said one day I’ll understand why it put me in Slytherin, and that’s all I want. I _want_ to understand. I just want to know how I fit in to this world. The magical world, I mean.”

  


“And you think the key is in the pictures?”

  


“I don’t _know_ , Malfoy. That’s the thing. All I know is that those pictures of my mum being in your house, of all places… that has to mean something. That can’t be a coincidence. I may never know why I’m in Slytherin, but if I can find out more about my mother… well, that’s at least something, you know?”

  


She falls silent for a moment and takes a generous gulp of her pumpkin juice. For a moment, I suspect she’s wishing there was something a bit stronger in that goblet.

  


“So, really, I’m not mad at you,” she continues. “I’m just mad that I was the closest I’ve ever come to learning about… well, _me_ , and within seconds it was gone. Again, I don’t expect you to understand-”

  


“I do,” I interrupt. “I mean, I don’t know what it feels like, but I get where you’re coming from. I’m sorry.”

  


“And I meant it, you know,” she adds. “I’ll go to the Manor.”

  


“I know.”

  


“Just know I’ll be miserable.”

  


“For what it’s worth, so will I.”

  


Emmaleigh smiles at this. She reaches into the tote and pulls out a couple of chocolate biscuits. She hands me one, and holds up the other as if to toast.

  


“To a miserable Christmas,” she snorts before taking a bite.

  


“Cheers,” I say, mocking her gesture.

  


We again fall into a comfortable silence. After a couple of minutes, the breeze starts to pick up. I see Emmaleigh shiver, but she makes no motion to button up her cloak.

  


“We should probably head back,” I suggest. “It’s only going to get colder.”

  


“Yeah,” she agrees.

  


I help her gather her books before we begin the descent from the Astronomy Tower. The corridors are eerily silent as we head back to our dormitory. Dinner may still be underway, I expect, but it’s still such a change from years past. Even the ghosts seemed to have gone into hiding this year. At this point, I’d even be happy to see Peeves wreaking havoc.

  


“So, what was in the letter?” Emmaleigh asks. We’ve reached Robin the Ruthless and are now back in our common room.

  


“The letter?”

  


“The one from your mother,” she clarifies.

  


“Oh, that,” I mutter. I’d forgotten about it. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

  


She glares at me. “Malfoy...”

  


I shake my head. “You’re not going to like it.”

  


“What else is new?”

  


“I mean it, Ross.”

  


“Just tell me,” she urges. “I’m going to find out eventually.”

  


“Fine. It’s about the Christmas holidays. Er, New Year’s, actually. Every year, my parents have hosted a party on New Year’s Eve. I’d assumed that, well...”

  


“You assumed…?”

  


“I just figured this year, they wouldn’t be having it, given everything that’s going on. But-”

  


“It’s still on,” she finished for me.

  


I nod. “Yeah.”

  


“And I suppose we’re expected to attend?” When I nod again, she sighs. “Who’s typically on the guest list?”

  


“Everyone,” I mumble.

  


“Everyone,” she repeats slowly. “So you mean-”

  


“Death Eaters, yes.”

  


“Wonderful,” she mutters. “Well, with any luck, the clock will strike twelve before I’m murdered. That way I’ll get an extra year on my grave marker.”

  


“Ross, stop. It’ll be fine,” I insist. “We’ve done well so far. As long as we keep our heads down...”

  


It was a futile attempt to sound convincing. I’m just as nervous as she is, if not more so. When we struck up this plan, I figured we’d be trying to fool my parents at the most, not every member of the Cause. With any luck, there’ll be some disruption or revelation on New Year’s Eve that’s too important to ignore, forcing the damn thing to be called off.

  


I try to ignore how twisted it is for me to wish for such a thing.

 

* * *

  


“I really think you need to give it a rest,” I say. “At least while we’re here.”

  


We’ve been at the Manor for a couple of hours now. After settling in and having dinner, Emmaleigh and I retreated to the library, where I figured we could play chess or something to pass the time until we head off to bed. She, however, seems to have other plans, as she’s yet again pouring over _A History of Magical Families of Great Britain and Ireland_.

  


“Fat chance,” she mutters, flipping the page and running her finger down a list of names.

  


“You’re wasting your time. We already looked through that one, remember? Back in September when we found Everett Donoghue?”

  


“Maybe we missed something.”

  


“Doubtful. We were very thorough.”

  


“Yes,” she agrees. “However, we were researching with an entirely different purpose.”

  


“I’m pretty sure your mother’s name would have stood out to us if we had come across it.”

  


“I’m not looking for my mother,” Emmaleigh counters. “I’m looking for Angela Burke.”

  


“What for?”

  


“Well, I know my mother wasn’t a witch. Maybe Angela is. It could explain why the photos were in your house. Maybe she knows your parents?”

  


“First of all, we don’t even know for sure that the other woman is Angela,” I argue. “And even if it is, she’s only in two or three of the pictures. Whoever took them was obviously taking pictures of your mother, and ‘Angela’ just happened to be there for a few.”

  


“Malfoy,” she says calmly, though I can tell she’s restraining a lecture, “I know it’s unlikely, but I’m just trying to explore every possibility. I don’t have a whole lot to go on. Let me work with what I have.”

  


“Fine,” I relent. “Just...”

  


“Just what?” she challenges. It’s the first time she’s looked up from the book since we got in here, and she uses the opportunity to glare at me.

  


“I know this is important to you,” I begin. “And you’re right – the pictures are too strange to ignore. Just don’t lose sight of what we set out to do.”

  


“Meaning?”

  


“Meaning the Horcruxes,” I remind her. “We’ve barely talked about them since we searched the room down the hall.”

  


“Believe me, I haven’t forgotten those. I have some-”

  


But whatever Emmaleigh has to say is cut short, as we’re both startled to hear a wail coming from downstairs, followed the menacing, unmistakable cackle of my aunt.

  


“That’ll teach him!” Bellatrix crows in delight. “Want another? _Crucio!_ ”

  


“Malfoy, what-?”

  


“Stay here,” I urge.

  


Without another word, I grab my wand and head down the hall, the wails of whoever my aunt is torturing growing louder as I get closer to the stairs. Such sounds are regrettably nothing new to my ears, yet my skin still crawls and my blood turns to ice whenever I hear their pleas for mercy.

  


“I swear,” the girl cries, “I don’t know where he is!”

  


“Stupid girl!” This time, it’s my Uncle Rodolphus. I still can’t believe these atrocious people are family. “You think this is about Potter? No, this is about that father of yours!”

  


I don’t go downstairs, but instead peer around the wall to get a look. I immediately freeze.

  


It’s the Lovegood girl.

  


Did they yank her off the train? They must have. But for what? She’s been at school the last few months. What could she possibly know?

  


“It’s lies he spews!” my aunt spats. “Lies about Potter, lies about the Dark Lord! And he refuses to stop! Don’t you think he’ll learn his lesson once he realizes you’re gone? _Crucio!_ ”

  


The screams from Luna and the sadistic laughter of my aunt are almost enough to drown out the sound of Emmaleigh approaching.

  


“What is – _oh_!” she gasps.

  


Before she utters another word, I cover her mouth with my hand.

  


“Shut up,” I hiss, “unless you want to end up down there, too. Promise to say quiet?”

  


I don’t pull my hand away until she nods. By then, there are tears in her eyes as Luna lets out another sob.

  


“It’s Luna,” she desperately whispers. “Why do they have Luna?”

  


“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. My aunt, the sadistic bitch she is, is laughing again.

  


“What are we going to do?!”

  


I shake my head. “Ross… we can’t...”

  


“ _Can’t?_ It’s Luna!”

  


“Yes, I know that. But-”

  


“We have to do something!”

  


I see her withdraw her wand from her pocket. She makes a move to stand and I still her immediately, placing my hands on her shoulders.

  


“ _We can’t_ ,” I repeat.

  


“Malfoy!”

  


“This is nothing new, Ross!” I scold quietly. “This happens here all the time now. _All the time_. You’re just shocked because you’ve never seen it before. This is exactly why I don’t like coming home, because this shit is always happening.”

  


“And you do nothing,” she sneers.

  


“What am I going to do? Run down there and start firing curses? What good will that do? It’s not going to stop them from moving on to the next person. They don’t stop, Ross! They’re going to keep torturing and killing until this war is over! The only thing we can do is work against it all, _quietly_. We aren’t superhuman! We can’t fix everything!”

  


“But there has to be something… Christ, Malfoy, it’s _Luna_!” she repeats pleadingly. “She’s innocent!”

  


“They all are,” I murmur. “Welcome to my personal hell.”

  


Emmaleigh squeezes her eyes shut, choking back a sob as she leans her head against the wall. A tear slips from her eye and makes its decent down her pale face, momentarily pooling on her chin before falling to her lap.

  


“This can’t be real,” she whispers. “This has to be a nightmare.”

  


“If only. Believe me, if I could do something, I would.”

  


Her eyes snap open then. “You can.”

  


“Sorry?”

  


“Your claim,” she says. “Remember? Didn’t you say-?”

  


“No! I can’t use that now!”

  


“Why not?” she argues. “You said it yourself that you could use it to save someone, so use it!”

  


“No, Ross. I have to save it,” I argue. “What about you?”

  


“What about me?”

  


“If something happens, and you get caught...”

  


“ _If_ ,” she repeats. “ _If_ I get caught. You’re saving your claim _just in case_ something happens to me? That may never happen, Malfoy. But Luna needs you _now_.”

  


“Ross-”

  


I wish there was a way I could make sense of it not only for her, but for myself. Because she’s right: there’s no guarantee she’ll ever be stuck in a bind that I need to save her from. But the mere thought that it _could_ happen makes me want to hold on to my lone claim. If something were to happen to Emmaleigh, chances are it would be because being with me threw her into the limelight. It’d be my fault. And if I couldn’t do anything to help her…

  


I shouldn’t care this much about her, but I do. It’s really pissing me off.

  


“You say you wish you could do something, but never can,” she urges. “Malfoy… this is your chance. You can save someone tonight.” I open my mouth to retaliate, but she cuts me off. “No. Don’t worry about me. We’ve made it this far, haven’t we? We can make it the rest of this blasted war. But Luna… _please_ , Malfoy.”

  


I stare at her for a moment. Her resilience astounds me. In spite of the Ministry papers she has and the cover we’ve devised, Emmaleigh’s still in far more danger than Luna is now; no matter what my aunt and uncle are trying to achieve with her capture, Luna’s blood is pure and they won’t spill it. The same can’t be said for Emmaleigh if they ever discover her true blood status.

  


“Please,” she repeats.

  


Another sob echoes from downstairs, and it hits me like a punch to the chest. I look at Emmaleigh and nod.

  


“Go back to the library.”

  


“Malfoy-”

  


“I’ll take care of it,” I say. “Just go, before I change my mind.”

  


She nods and scurries away. Meanwhile, I take a deep breath and head downstairs. Luna is lying on the floor, eyes half-closed and breathing shallowly. My aunt is spewing more of her rubbish while my uncle laughs. To my surprise and dismay, my father is standing off to the side, watching it all unfold. Though he doesn’t seem to be partaking, it nonetheless sickens me that he can watch such things so intently.

  


“Oh, Draco!” my aunt laughs when she sees me, gesturing me over. “Come join the fun!”

  


“I will, Aunt Bellatrix,” I counter, “but on my own. I want this one.”

  


Her arm, already raised and ready to hurl another curse at Luna, lowers as she turns toward me.

  


“What’s that?”

  


“I want this one for myself.”

  


“Stupid boy!” she hollers. “What do you want with this one? She does not beg! She hardly cries! A waste, if you ask me!”

  


The retaliations rise like bile within me, and I fight like hell to keep them down. She hardly cries? If that was _hardly_ crying, I’d hate to hear what my aunt thinks _real_ crying sounds like.

  


“This one humiliated me once,” I declare. It’s a lie, really. My only real encounter with Luna was that time in Umbridge’s office during fifth year, and she hadn’t been the brains behind her escape; the Weasley girl had taken care of that. “I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to make her pay.”

  


My aunt scowls, but lowers her wand.

  


“Have it your way, then. Do your worst!” she sings.

  


“Not now,” I say. “Move her to the basement. I’ll be back later. But remember: she’s mine. No one touches her but me.”

  


Later that evening, when the house is eerily quiet, I make my way down to the basement. I hear light snoring coming from somewhere in the shadows, reminding me that the wandmaker is still down here. Luna, however, is unsurprisingly awake, and she cowers against the wall when she sees me. I don’t blame her.

  


“Stay quiet,” I whisper. She’s visibly shaking as I kneel down before her. “I won’t hurt you.”

  


She says nothing, and I take a moment to look over the exposed skin of her face and arms. As far as I can tell, there are some wounds, but none so severe that a healing potion can’t handle them.

  


“Why are you here?” I ask after a minute. “Do you know why they took you?”

  


She nods, but she doesn’t speak for a few moments, seemingly collecting her words.

  


“My father,” she chokes out. “His writing...”

  


I nod. I’d forgotten about her connection to _The Quibbler._ The publication has been brewing much anger among members of The Cause.

  


“You stopped them,” she whispers.

  


“Sorry?”

  


“Those people… they were torturing me. You stopped them.”

  


For a moment, I anticipate her to ask why, but the question never comes. I’ve been told she’s intuitive, however strange, and as she stares at me with hooded, tired blue eyes, it feels as if she can see straight through me. There is no animosity in her gaze.

  


Though the wandmaker is still storing away, I keep my voice low, just in case.

  


“Listen,” I say, “I claimed you. That means no one is allowed to harm you. They may throw insults at you, and I’m sure they will, but they can’t curse you. Only I can, and I’m not going to. I promise. But, they have to think I am, alright? While you’re here, you have to look weak. You have to act like you’re being tortured regularly. It’s the only way I can protect you.”

  


“You’re protecting Emmaleigh, too,” she says. “Some people think she’s joined the Dark Side… but they’re wrong. She wouldn’t do that.”

  


I nod. “We’re keeping each other safe. But that’s all I can tell you.”

  


Luna does not implore for more information, which I’m grateful for. I pull two small, glass vials from my coat pocket that I nicked from our family’s potion cabinet upstairs. I show her the one that contains a turquoise liquid.

  


“This one’s for wounds. Apply it generously. It’ll heal any cuts or bruises that you have. And this one,” I add, holding up the vial that glows amber, “is for sleep. A drop or two should suffice. Here.”

  


She accepts the vials with shaking hands. She opens her mouth to say something, presumably thanks, but she’s interrupted by the sound of someone moving upstairs. Both of our gazes dart to the staircase momentarily, but to our relief, the patter of footsteps disappears; it was probably just one of my parents passing through.

  


“I should go,” I say, turning back to Luna. “Just remember: act weak. Do whatever you have to do to make them believe you’re being punished. If I’m going to keep you safe, you have to keep me safe, too, and they can’t know I’m working against them. Don’t tell a soul where those vials came from. Hide them well.”

  


Luna nods, and though I hardly know her, I believe her. I’m not worried about her saying anything here; she’d gain nothing from telling anyone in this house that I’m protecting her. But somehow I know that whenever she gets out of this wretched basement, she won’t spoil my secret. It’s a symptom of these trying times, I’m sure, but I completely trust her.

  


She doesn’t speak until I’m on the third stair from the ground.

  


“I always knew it,” she whispers. It’s barely audible over the creaking wood beneath my feet, but I turn to her as I hear it.

  


“Knew what?”

  


“That you weren’t bad.”

  


It’s the simplest thing, something I want to respond to but am unsure how, so I offer her a subtle nod before continuing my ascent, wondering if Luna knows her sentiment is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.

  


Once I’m back upstairs, my instinct is to go straight to my bedroom; it’s nearing midnight and after the events of today, fatigue is really beginning to hit me. Instead, I walk to the room Emmaleigh’s staying in. It’s directly across the hall from my own and even though the door is ajar upon my approach, I knock gently before poking my head in.

  


I’m not the least bit surprised to see she isn’t asleep. She’s not even in her bed. Emmaleigh is perched on the cushioned window seat, staring out at the falling snow. She’s as white as a ghost, something I’m sure cannot solely be a result of the moonlight pouring into the room.

  


My heart hurts for her. It’s one thing to know a war is going on. You know it’s there and you know it’s wrong, but at the end of the day, it isn’t directly affecting you. There’s a certain innocence to it. It’s almost like this strange, mythical being looming in the background that you can ignore. But to witness the cruelty firsthand is completely different. A person can scream about the injustices of war until they’re blue in the face, but to actually _see_ someone suffer the consequences of a conflict they played no part in starting… that changes a person. There’s no coming back from that.

  


As I look at Emmaleigh, I see myself two summers ago, the July before sixth-year began: broken, disheartened, and ashamed. Guilty, even. Angry. Confused. That was the first time I really saw the Death Eaters in action. Everything became so much more real then, and I know the same is true for Emmaleigh now.

  


I never wanted her – or anyone, for that matter – to see this part of my reality, but now that she has, somehow I know she understands. Yet again, Emmaleigh Ross is my most unlikely friend and confidante, and I’m hers.

  


“Hey,” I say quietly. “She’s okay. Lovegood, I mean. She’s stuck in the basement, but she’s safe. No one can hurt her.”

  


She nods, but doesn’t look away from the window.

  


I almost ask if she’s okay, but then I realize how stupid of a question that would be. Of course she isn’t okay. I sure wasn’t the first time I witnessed the Death Eaters at their worst. In many ways, I’m still not.

  


“Malfoy?”

  


“Yeah?”

  


“How do you deal with it?”

  


She looks at me now. She’s stopped crying, but her eyes are still red. This I know from experience, too. After a while, the tears simply run out.

  


At first, I’m not sure how to answer her, because most of the time, I don’t really think I am dealing with it. I still can’t come home without an intense feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. Nightmares plague my sleep nearly every night. There are days when I think it’d be better to give up because with each passing day, it feels more and more likely that the Dark Lord is going to win.

  


But he hasn’t won yet. There’s still hope.

  


“I just remember that there’s still something to fight for,” I tell her.

  


She nods, then looks toward the window again. I doubt it’s enough to make her feel better. It isn’t for me most of the time, either, but it’s all we have.

  


Once I’ve stepped out of her room and am in the hallway, I hear her voice again, no louder than a whisper.

  


“Malfoy?”

  


When I turn around, she’s hovering in the doorway, arms wrapped protectively around herself. She stares at me for a few seconds before speaking again.

  


“That… that was really brave, what you did,” she murmurs. “I…”

  


Then, she does the last thing I’m expecting her to do. Emmaleigh takes the few necessary steps to close the gap between us and embraces me. The action itself is nothing new. We’ve hugged one another plenty of times before, but it’s always been in the presence of others to play up our facade. Never has it been when we were alone. Yet, without thinking twice, I find myself returning the gesture, and we stay that way for several moments.

  


“Thank you,” Emmaleigh whispers.

  


I’m almost certain her gratitude is referring to Luna, but I’m inclined to wonder if it extends beyond that. It definitely does for me. I don’t vocalize it, but I silently thank her for the last few months for keeping my secret, for trusting me with hers, for being my friend. Truthfully, if she hadn’t wandered onto the Astronomy Tower on our first night back at school, I can only imagine how much more of a mess I’d be, how much more _lonely_ I’d be.

  


What I am certain of, however, is how I instantly miss her touch once she all-too-quickly disappears back into her room. She was so warm, a stark yet welcome contrast to this house, which is bitterly cold in both ambiance and temperature. How have I never noticed before?

  


Once I’m in my room, I lie down almost immediately and remember what I told Emmaleigh: _there’s still something to fight for._ I tell myself to keep that small flicker of hope alive in my mind during this holiday. These next two weeks are bound to feel like a century. I know better than to expect the cheer and tranquility that once accompanied Christmas. This year, carols will be replaced with the cries of victims. Instead of holiday lights and candles, curses will illuminate the sitting room. Gifts will not come in wrapped boxes, but in the form of moments. Moments when my aunt, uncle, and their deplorable friends are not here. Moments when screams do not echo throughout the halls of the Manor.

  


Moments like my encounter with Emmaleigh in the hallway minutes ago, when I’m allowed to remember, even for a fleeting second, that they haven’t won yet.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
